
Class 
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COPYRIGiCr DEPOSIT. 



;6 
HI8T0KY OF PHILOSOPHY 

IX 

EPITOME 

BY 

ALBERT SCHWEGLER. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FIRST EDITIOX OF THE ORIGINAL 

GERMAN 

BY 

JULIUS H. SEELYE. 

REVISED FROM THE NINTH GERMAN EDITION, fVITH AN 
APPENDIX, 

BY 

BENJAJMIN E. SMITH. 



7^3^^^' 



U,.../i^;; 



NEW YORK : 
D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 

1, 3, & 5 BOND ST., 
1880. 



Ir 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, 

By Julius H. Seelye, 

lu the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Northern District of New Yorlc. 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, 

By Julius H. Seelye, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



TEAS'SLATOE^S PEEFACE. 



OCHWEGLER'S History of Philosophy originally 

appeared in the '-'-Neue Encyklopddie fur Wissen- 

jhaften und Kilnste.'" Its great value soon awakened 

call for its separate issue, in which form it has 

tained a very wide circulation in Germany. It is 

ound in the hands of almost every student in the 

philosophical department of a German university, 

and is highly esteemed for its clearness, conciseness, 

and comprehensiveness. 

The present translation was commenced in Ger- 
many three years ago, and has been carefully fin- 
ished. It was undertaken with the conviction that 
the work would not lose its interest or its value in 
an English dress, and with the hope that it might 
be of wider service in such a form to students of 
philosophy here. It was thought especially, that a 
proper translation of this manual would supply a 
want for a suitable text-book on this branch of 
study, long felt by both teachers and students in 
our American colleges. 

The effort has been made to translate, and not 

iii 



IV PREFACE. 

to paraphrase the author's meaning. Many of his 
statements might have been amplified without dif- 
fuseness, and made more perceptible to the super- 
ficial reader without losing their interest to the more 
profound student, but he has so happily seized upon 
the germs of the different systems, that they neither 
need, nor would be improved by any farther devel- 
opment, and has, moreover, presented them so clearly, 
that no student need have any difQculty in appre- 
hending them as they are. The translator has there- 
fore endeavored to represent faithfully and clearly 
the original history. As such he offers his work to 
the American public, indulging no hope, and making 
no efforts for its success beyond that which its own 
merits shall ensure. J. H. S. 

Schenectady, N.Y., January, 185G. 



PEEFACE TO THE EEYISED EDITION. 



A FTER this translation was first published, the 
ninth edition of the original work, containing 
some important revisions, appeared in Germany. 
These revisions, including some new matter and 
some modifications of the old, are here incorporated 
by my friend and former pupil, whose name appears 
upon the title-page, and who, at my request, has also 
added an appendix continuing the history in its more 
prominent lines of development since the time of 
Hegel. He has done his work thoroughly, and what- 
ever value belonged to the translation as originally 
presented, will be found decidedly augmented in its 
present form. J. H. S. 

Amherst College, June^ 1880. 

V 



OOKTElSrTS. 



PAGR 

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE iii 

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION V 

TABLE OF CONTENTS vii 

SECTION I. — OBJECT AND METHOD OF THE HISTORY OF PHI- 
LOSOPHY 15 

II. — CLASSIFICATION 21 

HI. — GENERAL VIEW OF THE PRE-SOCRATIC PHILOSO- 
PHY 22 

1. The Ionics 22 

2. The Pythagoreans 22 

3. The Eleatics 22 

4. Heraclitus 23 

5. The Atomists 23 

6. Anaxagoras 24 

7. The Sophists 24 

IV. — THE EARLIER IONIC PHILOSOPHERS ... 25 

1. Thales 25 

2. Anaximander 26 

3. Anaximenes , . 27 

4. Retrospect 27 

v. — PYTHAGOREANISM * . 28 

1. Its Relative Position 28 

2. Historical and Chronological 28 

3. The Pythagorean Principle 29 

4. Carrying out of this Principle 30 

' YL — THE ELEATICS 32 

1. Relation of the Eleatic Principle to the Pythagorean , 32 

2. Xenophaues 33 

3. Parmenides 34 

4. Zeno . 36 

vii 



Yin CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SECT. VII. — IIERACLITUS 38 

1. Ilclation of the Hcraclitic Principle to the Eleatic . 38 

2. Ilistoi-ical and Chronological 38 

3. The Principle of Becoming 39 

4. The Principle of Fire 40 

5. Transition to the Atomists 41 

VIII.— EMPED0CLE3 42 

1. General View 42 

2. The Four Elements 43 

3. The Two Powers 43 

4. Relation of the Empedoclean to the Eleatic and Ilera- 

clitic Philosophy 44 

IX.— THE ATOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY 4.5 

1. Its Propoimdcrs 45 

2. The Atoms 45 

3. The Fulness and the Void 45 

4. The Atomistic Necessity 46 

5. Relative Position of the Atomistic Philosophy . , 47 

X. — ANAX-VGORAS 48 

1. His Personal History . 48 

2. His Relation to his Predecessors 49 

3. The Principle of the vovg 49 

4. Anaxagoras as the close of the Pre-Socratic Realism 51 

XI. — THE SOPHLSTIC PHILOSOPHY 52 

1. The Relation of the Sophistic Philosophy to the Earlier 

Philosophies 52 

2. Relation of the Sophistic Philosophj' to the General 

Life of that Age ^i 

3. Tendencies of the Sophistic Philosophy ... 55 

4. Significance of the Soi)histic Philosophy in its relation 

to the Culture of the Age 57 

5. Individual Sophists 58 

6. Transition to Socrates, and Character of tiie following 

Period 60 

XII. — SOCRATES 62 

1. His Personal Character 62 

2. Socrates and Aristophanes 66 

3. The Condemnation of Socrates 67 

4. Sources of the Socratic Philosophy .... 71 

5. General Character of the Socratic Philosopliy . , 72 

6. The Socratic Method 74 

7. The Socratic Doctrine of Virtue 76 

XIII —THE PARTIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCRATES. . . 70 

1. Their Relation to the Socratic Philosopliy ... 70 

2. Antistlicnes and the Cynics 80 

3. Aristlppus and the Cyrcnaics SI 

4. Kurlld and the Megarlans 8.3 

5. Plato as the complete Socratic 84 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGB 

SECT. Xn^ — PLATO 85 

I. Plato's Life 85 

1. His Youth 85 

2. His Years of Discipline 85 

3. His Years of Travel 86 

4. His Years of Instruction 87 

n. The IXXER DEVELOP31ENT OF THE PLAT0>-IC PHI- 
LOSOPHY AXD "WKITIXGS 89 

III. Classification of the Platoxic System ... 95 

lY. The Platoxic Dialectic 97 

1. Conception of Dialectic 97 

2. What is Science? ....... 98 

(1) As opposed to Sensation . . . . . 98 

(2) The Relation of Knowledge to Opinion . 100 

(3) The Relation of Science to Thought . . 100 

3. The Doctrine of Ideas in its Genesis ... 101 
* 4. Positive Exposition of the Docti'ine of Ideas . . 106 

5. The Relation of Ideas to the Phenomenal World 107 

6. The Idea of the Good and the Deity .... 110 
V. The Platonic Physics HI 

1. Nature Ill 

2. The Soul 114 

VI. The Platonic Ethics 116 

1. The Highest Good 117 

2. Virtue 118 

3. The State 119 

VII. Retrospect 124 

XV. — THE OLD ACADEMY 125 

XVI. — ARISTOTLE . 126 

I. Life .ocd Writings of Aristotle .... 126 
n. General Character and Division of the Aristo- 
telian Philosophy 128 

III. Logic and Metaphysic 131 

1. Nature and Relation of the Two .... 131 

2. Logic 132 

3. Metaphysic 134 

(1) The Aristotelian Criticism of the Platonic 

Doctrine of Ideas 134 

(2) The Four Aristotelian Principles, or Causes, 

and the Relation of Form and flatter .• . 139 

(3) Potentiality- and Actuality .... 142 

(4) The Absolute Divine Spirit .... 143 

IV. The Aristotelian Physics 146 

1. Motion, Matter, Space, and Time .... 146 

2. The Collective Universe 147 

3. Nature 148 

4. Man 149 

V. The Aristotelian Ethics 151 

1. Relation of Ethics to Physics 151 

2. The Highest Good 152 

3. Conception of Virtue ...... 154 

4. The State 155 



CONTENTS. 



Sect. XVl. — (continued.) page 

Yl. The Peripatetic School 156 

VII. Transition to the Post- Aristotelian Philosophy 157 

XVII. — STOICISM 160 

1. Logic 161 

2. Physics 162 

3. Ethics 164 

(1) Respcctiug the Relation of Virtue to Pleasure . 165 

(2) The View of the Stoics concerning External Good 165 

(3) Farther Verification of this View ... 166 

(4) The Special Doctrine of Ethical Action . . .167 

XVIII. — EPICLHEANISM 169 

XIX. — SCEPTICISM AND THE NEW ACADEMY . . .173 

1. The Old Scepticism 174 

2. The New Academy .175 

3. The Later Scepticism 177 

XX, — THE ROMANS 177 

XXI.-NEO-PLATONISM 178 

1. Ecstasy as a Subjective State 179 

2. The Cosmical Principles 180 

3. The Emanation Theory of the Neo-Platonists . . . 181 

XXII. — CHRISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. ... 184 

1. The Christian Idea 184 

2. Scholasticism 185 

3. Nominalism and Realism 187 

XXIIL — TRANSITION TO THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY . . 188 

1. Fall of Scholasticism 188 

2. The Results of Scholasticism 189 

3. The Revival of Letters 190 

4. The German Refoi'mation 190 

5. The Advancement of the Natural Sciences . . .192 

6. Bacon of Verulam 193 

7. The Italian Philosophers of the Transition Epoch . . 194 

8. Jacob Boehme 196 

XXIV. — DESCARTES • .... 199 

1. The Beginning of Philosophy with Doubt ... 200 

2. Cogito ergo sum 201 

3. Tlic Nature of Mind deduced from this Principle . 201 

4. The Universal Rule of all Certainty follows from the 

same 202 

5. The Existence of God 202 

6. Results of this Fact in Philosophy 204 

7. Tlic Two Sul)stance8 205 

8. The Anthropology of Descartes 206 

XXV.-GEULINCX AND MALEBRANCHE 209 

1. Gcullncx 209 

2. Malebranche 211 

8. The Defcctb of the l'hllosoi»hy of Descartes . . . 212 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

SECT. XXVI. — SPINOZA 213 

1. The One Infinite Substance 214 

2. The Two Attributes 217 

3. The Modes 219 

4. His Practical Philosophy 220 

XXVII.— IDEALISM AND REALISM 222 

XXVIII.— LOCKE 224 

XXIX. — HUME 229 

XXX. — CONDILLAC 233 

XXXI.— HELVETIUS 235 

XXXH. — THE FRENCH CLEARING UP AND MATERIALISM 236 

1. The Common Character of the French Pliilosophers of 

this Age 236 

2. Voltaire 237 

3. Diderot 238 

4. La Mettrie's Materialism 239 

5. Systfeme de la Nature 239 

XXXIH.- LEIBNITZ 243 

1. The Doctrine of Monads 245 

1. The Monads more accurately determined . . . 246 

g 3. The Pre-established Harmony 247 

■ 4, The Relation of the Deity to the Monads . . . .249 

5. The Relation of Soul and Body 250 

6. The Theory of Knowledge 251 

7. Leibnitz's Theodic6e 252 

XXXIV. -BERKELEY 254 

XXXV.— WOLFF 256 

1. Ontology 258 

2. Cosmology 258 

3. Rational Psychology . 259 

4. Natural Theology 260 

XXXVL — THE GERMAN CLEARING UP 261 

XXXVH. — TRANSITION TO KANT 263 

1. Examination of the Faculty of Knowledge . . .264 

2. Three Chief Principles of the Kantian Theory of 

Knowledge 267 

XXXVni KANT 269 

I. Critique of Pure Reason 272 

1. The Transcendental Esthetics 273 

(1) The Metaphysical Exposition ... 274 

(2) The Transcendental Exposition . . .274 

2. The Transcendental Analytic .... 276 

3. The Transcendental Dialectic ..... 283 

(1) The Psychological Idea . . • . . 284 

(2) The Antinomies of Cosmology . . . .285 



Xll 



CONTENTS. 



Sect. XXXV'III, — {continued.) 

(3) The Ideal of the Pure Reason 
(a) The Ontological Proof 
{b) The Cosniological Proof 
(c) The Physico-Theological Proof 
II. Critique of the Practical Reason . 

(1) TheAnalj'tic 

(2) The Dialectic: What is this Highest Good i 

(a> Perfect Virtue or Holiness 
ih) Perfect Happiness .... 
(c) Kant's Views of Religion . 
III. Critique of the Faculty of Judgment , 

1. Critique of the JEsthetic Faculty of Judgment 

(1) Analytic 

(2) Dialectic 

2, Critique of the Teleological Faculty of Judgment 

(1) Analytic of the Teleological Faculty of Judg- 

ment . . 

(2) Dialectic 



PACK 
286 
286 
287 
287 
290 
291 
294 
296 
296 
297 
300 
303 
303 
304 
305 

305 
306 



XXXIX. — TRANSITION TO THE POST-ItANTIAN PHILOSOPHY 308 
XL. — JACOBI 310 

XLI. — FICHTE 319 

I. The Fichtian Philosophy in its Original Form . 322 

1. The Theoretical Philosophy of Fichte, his Wisseu- 

schaftslehre, or Theory of Science . . .322 

2. Fichte's Practical Philosophy .... 336 
II. The Later Form of Fichte's Philosophy . . .343 



XLIL-HERBART . 



1. The Basis and Starting-Poiut of Philosophy . 

2. The First Act of Philosophy .... 

3. Remodelling the Conceptions of Experience . 

4. Herbart's Reals 

5. Psychology connected Avith Metaphysics . 

6. The Importance of Herbart's Philosophy . 



XLIU. — SCHELLING 355 



345 
346 
346 
347 
348 
353 
354 



First Period: Schelling's Derivation from 

Fichte 357 

Second Period: Standpoint of the Distinction 
between the Philosophy of Nature and op 

Mind • .... 361 

1. Philosophy of Nature 363 

(1) Organic Nature 363 

(2) Inorganic Nature 364 

(3) The Reciprocal Determination of the Organic 

and Inorganic World 365 

2. Tranficendcntal Philosophy 366 

(1) The Theoretical Philosophy .... 367 

(2) The Practical Philosophy .... 368 

(3) Philosophy of Art 369 



CONTENTS. Xlll 

Sect. XLIII. — {continued.) page 

III. Thikd Period : Period of Spinozism, or the la- 

DIEPERENCE OF THE IDEAL, AND THE REAL . , 371 

IV. Fourth Period: The Mystical or Neo-Platonic 

Form of Schelllng's Philosophy ... 378 
V. Fifth Period : Attejlpt at a Theogony akd Cos- 
mogony, after the IMAJSnSTER OF JACOB BOEHIME . 380 

(1) The Progressive Development of Nature to Man 382 

(2) The Development of Mind in History . . .382 

XLIV. — TRANSITION TO HEGEL 391 

XLV. — HEGEL 397 

1. SCIENCE OF Logic 400 

1. The Doctrine of Being 401 

(1) Quality 401 

(2) Quantity . . • 402 

(3) Measure 402 

2. The Doctrine of Essence 403 

(1) The Essence as such 403 

(2) Essence and Phenomenon . . . .404 

(3) Actuality 405 

3. The Doctrine of the Notion 406 

(1) The Subjective Notion 407 

(2) Objectivity 408 

(3) The Idea 408 

II. The Science of Nature 409 

1. Mechanics 410 

2. Physics 410 

3. Organics 410 

(1) Geological Organism 411 

(2) Vegetable Organism 411 

(3) Animal Organism 411 

III. Philosophy of INIind 412 

1. The Subjective Mind 412 

2. The Objective Mind 414 

3. The Absolute Mind , 419 

'1) Art 420 

(«) Architecture 420 

(b) Sculpture 420 

(c) Painting 421 

(rf) Music 421 

(e) Poetry 421 

(2) Philosophy of Religion 421 

(a) The Natural Religion of the Oriental 

World ....... 421 

(6) The Religion of Mental Individuality . 422 

(c) Revealed, or the Christian Religion . 422 

(3) Absolute Philosophy 422 



Xiv CONTENTS. 

APPENDIX 

PAGB 

I. REACTION AGADsST HEGEL 423 

II. SCHOPENHAUER 427 

in. ILVRTaiAN^ 445 

IV. COMTE 449 

V. ASSOCIATIONAL rSYCIIOLOGY 453 

VI. SPENCER 455 

Vn. mCKOK 464 



A HISTOET OF PHILOSOPHY. 



SECTION I. 



OBJECT AND METHOD OF THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

TO philosophize is to reflect ; to examine things, in thought. 
This is not, however, a sufficiently exact definition of 
philosophy. Man also employs thought in those practical 
activities concerned in the adaptation of means to an end ; 
the whole body of sciences also, even those which do not 
belong to philosophy in the stricter sense, are products of 
reflective thought. B}' what, then, is philosophy distinguished 
from these sciences, e.g.^ from that of astronomy, of medicine, 
or of jurisprudence ? Certainly not hy its material, for this is 
identical with the material of the diflerent empmcal sciences. 
The constitution and disposition of the universe, the struc- 
ture and functions of the human body, property, law, and the 
state, — all these are as truly the material of philosophy as 
of their appropriate sciences. That w^hich is given in the 
world of experience, that which is real, is the content of both. 
It is not, therefore, in its material, but in its form, in its 
method, in its mode of knowledge, that philosophj^ is to be 
distinguished from the empirical sciences. These latter de- 
rive their material directly from experience ; they find it at 
hand and take it up just as they find it. Philosophy, on the 



16 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

other hand, is never satisfied with receiving that which is 
given simply as it is given, but rather follows it out to its 
ultimate grounds ; it examines each individual thing in its 
relations to a final principle, and considers it as one element 
of a complete S3'stem of knowledge. In this wa}' philosophy 
removes from the particulars of experience their immediate, 
individual, and accidental character ; from the sea of empi- 
rical individualities it brings out the universal, and subordi- 
nates the infinite and orderless mass of contingencies to 
necessary laws. In short, philosophy deals with the totality 
of exx^erience under the form of an organic system in harmony 
with the laws of thought. From the above it is seen, that 
philosophy (in the sense we have given it) and the empirical 
sciences have a reciprocal influence ; the latter conditioning 
the former, while they at the same time are conditioned by it. 
We shall, therefore, in the histor}^ of thought, no more find 
an absolute and complete philosophy", than a complete empi- 
rical science. On the contrary, philosophy exists only in the 
form of diff'erent philosophical S3^stems, which have appeared 
successively in the course of history, advancing hand in hand 
with the progress of the empirical sciences and universal 
social and civil culture, and showing in their advance the 
diflferent stages in the development and improvement of 
human knowledge. The history of philosophy has, for its 
object, to exhibit the content, the succession, and the inner 
connection of these philosophical systems. 

The relation of these diflferent systems to each other is thus 
already intimated. The historical and collective life of the 
race is bound together by the idea of a spiritual and intel- 
lectual progress, and manifests a regular order of advancing, 
though not always continuous, stages of development. In 
this, the fact harmonizes with what we should expect from 
antecedent probabilities. Since, therefore, every philosophi- 
cal system is only the philosophical expression of the collec- 
tive Ufe of its time, it follows that the diflferent systems which 
have appeared in history will disclose one organic movement 



ITS OBJECT AND METHOD. 17 

and form together one rational and internally articulated sys- 
tem, one order of development grounded in the constant en- 
deavor of the human mind to raise itself to a higher point 
of consciousness and knowledge, and to recognize the whole 
spiritual and natural universe, more and more, as its out- 
ward being, as its reality, as the mirror of itself. 

Hegel was the first to utter these thoughts and to consider 
the history of philosophy as a united process ; but this view, 
which is, in its principle, true, he has applied in a way which 
tends to destroy not only the freedom of human action but 
even the very conception of contingency, i.e., the possibility 
of the actual existence of the unreasonable. Hegel's view is, 
that the succession of the systems of philosophy which have 
appeared in history, corresponds to the succession of logical 
categories in a S3^stem of logic. According to him, if, from 
the fundamental conceptions of these different philosophical 
systems, we remove that which pertains to their outward form 
or particular application, etc., there will remain the difierent 
steps of the logical notion, being, becoming, existence, being 
jper se, quantity, etc. And on the other hand, if we consider 
the logical process by itself, we find also in it all that is essen- 
tial in the actual historical process. 

This opinion, however, can be sustained neither in its prin- 
ciple nor in its historical application. It is defective in its 
principle, because history is a combination of contingency 
and necessity. If we consider its general movements and 
results, a rational (necessar}') connection of events is clearly 
discernible ; but if we look solely at its individual elements, 
it exhibits merely a play of numberless contingencies, just 
as nature, taken as a whole, reveals a rational plan in its 
successions, but viewed onty in its parts, mocks at every at- 
tempt to reduce them to a preconceived order. In history we 
have to do with individuals capable of originating actions with 
free subjectivity, — a factor which does not admit of calcu- 
tion. For however accurately we may estimate the controll- 
ing conditions which may attach to an individual, from the 



18 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

general circumstances in which he may be placed, his age, 
his associations, his nationalit}', etc., a free will can never be 
calculated like a mathematical problem. History does not 
admit of strict arithmetical calculation. The history of plii- 
losoph}^, therefore, cannot be constructed a priori; the actual 
occurrences should not be joined together to illustrate a pre- 
conceived plan ; but the facts, so far as they can be admitted, 
after a critical sifting, should be received as such, and their 
rational connection be analj'ticall}^ determined. The specu- 
lative idea can o\Aj supply the law for the arrangement and 
scientific connection of that which may be historically fur- 
nished. 

A more comprehensive view, which contradicts the above- 
given Hegelian theor}', is the following. The actual historical 
development is, ver}" generall}', different from the theoretical. 
Historicall}', e.g.^ the State arose as a means of protection 
against violence and spoliation, while theoreticall}' it is de- 
rived from the idea of rights. So also in the history of 
philosophy, while the logical (theoretical) process is an 
ascent from the abstract to the concrete, the historical devel- 
opment of philosoph}^ is, quite generall}', a descent from the 
concrete to the abstract, from intuition to thought, a separa- 
tion of the abstract from the concrete in those general forms 
of culture and those religious and social circumstances, in 
which the philosophizing subject is placed. A system of 
philosoph}^ proceeds S3'nthetically, while the Jiistory of phi- 
losoph}', i.e., the history of the actual development of thought, 
proceeds analytically. We might, therefore, with great pro- 
priet}', adopt directly the reverse of the Hegelian position, 
and sa}' that what is theoreticall}- the first, is for us, in fact, 
the last. The Ionic pliilosophy, for example, began not with 
beijig as an abstract conception, but with the most concrete, 
and most apparent, i.e., with the material conception of 
water, air, etc. Even if we leave the Ionics and advance to 
the being of the Eleatics, or the becoming of the Ileraclitics, 
we find that these, instead of being determinations of pure 



ITS OBJECT AND METHOD. 19 

thought, are onl}' unpurified conceptions, and materiall}' col- 
ored intuitions. Still farther, the attempt to refer every 
philosoph}' that has appeared in history to some logical cate- 
gory as its centi'al principle is impracticable because the ma- 
jority of these philosophies have taken for their object the 
idea, not as an abstract conception, but in its realization as 
nature and mind ; and, therefore, for the most part, have to 
do, not with logical questions, but with those relating to natu- 
ral philosophy, psjxholog}', and ethics. Hegel should not, 
therefore, limit his comparison of the historical and S3'stematic 
process of development to logic, but should extend it to the 
whole system of philosophical science. Granting that the 
Eleatics, the Heraclitics, and the Atomists may have made a 
particular category" the centre of then' s^'stems, we ma}^ find 
thus far the Hegehan logic in harmony with the HegeUan 
histor}^ of philosoph}'. But if we go farther, how is it? How 
with Anaxagoras, the Sophists, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle? 
We cannot, certainly, without violence, reduce the systems 
of these men to one central principle ; but if we should be 
able to do it, and could reduce, e.^., the philosoph}' of An- 
axagoras to the conception of design^ that of the Sophists to 
the conception of appearance^ and the Socratic Philosophy 
to the conception of the good^ — 3'et even then we have the 
new difficult}' that the historical does not correspond to the 
logical succession of these categories. In fact, Hegel him- 
self has not attempted a complete application of his princi- 
ple, and indeed gave it up at the ver}' threshold of Greek 
philosophy. To the Eleatics, the Heraclitics, and the Atom- 
ists, the logical categories of heing^ becoming^ and being per 
se may be successivel}^ ascribed, and so far, as alread}^ re- 
marked, the parallelism extends, but no farther. Not onh^ 
does Anaxagoras follow with the conception of reason work- 
ing according to an end, but if we go back before the 
Eleatics, we find in the very beginning of philosoph}" a total 
diversit}' between the logical and historical order. If Hegel 
had carried out his principle consistently, he would have 



20 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

thrown away entirel}' the Ionic philosophy-, for matter is no 
logical categorj' ; he would have placed the Pythagoreans 
after the Eleatics and the Atomists, for in logic the catego- 
ries of quantity follow those of quality ; in short, he would 
have been obliged to set aside all chronolog}". If we are 
unwilling to do this, we must be satisfied with subjecting the 
course which the thinking spirit has taken in its history to 
a theoretical interpretation only when we can see in the grand 
stages of histor}' a rational progress of thought ; only when 
the philosophical historian, survej-ing a period of develop- 
ment, actually finds in it a philosophical acquisition, — the 
acquisition of a new idea : but we must guard ourselves 
against appl3-ing to the transition aud intermediate steps, as 
well as to the whole detail of histor}-, the postulate of an 
immanent conformit}^ to law and logical connection. Histor}- 
often winds its wa}* like a serpent in lines which appear retro- 
gressive ; and philosophy, especiall}-, has not seldom with- 
drawn herself from a wide and already fruitful field, in order 
to settle down upon a narrow strip of land, if only to culti- 
vate this latter the more assiduoush'. At one time we find 
a thousand years expended in fruitless attempts with onlj' a 
negative result ; — at another, a fulness of philosophical ideas 
are crowded together in the experience of a lifetime. There 
is here no swaj- of an immutable and regularlj' returning 
natural law ; but history, the realm of freedom, will com- 
pletely manifest itself as the work of reason only at the end 
of time. 



CLASSIFICATION. 21 

SECTIOiSF II. 

CLASSIFICATION. 

A FEW words will suffice to define our problem and clas- 
sif}' its elements. Where and when does philosoph}^ begin ? 
Manfestly, according to the analysis made in Sect. I., where 
a final philosophical principle, a final ground of being is first 
sought in a philosophical way, — and hence with Greek phi- 
losophy. The so-called Oriental philosophies, — the Chinese 
and Indian, — which are rather theologies or mj'thologies, 
and the mj-thic cosmogonies of Greece, in its earliest periods, 
are, therefore, excluded from om- more limited problem. 
Like Aristotle, we shall begin the historj' of philosophy with 
Thales. For similar reasons we exclude also the philosoph}^ 
of the Christian middle ages, or Scholasticism. This is not 
so much a philosophy, as a philosophizing or reflecting with- 
in the abeacly prescribed limits of positive religion. It is, 
therefore, essentiall}" theolog}', and belongs to the science of 
the history of Christian doctrines. 

The material which remains after this exclusion, may be 
natm-ally divided into two periods; viz., ancient — Grecian 
and Grffico-Roman — and modern philosoph}'. Since a pre- 
liminary comparison of the characteristics of these two epochs 
could not here be given without a subsequent repetition, we 
shall defer the discussion of their inner relations until we 
come to treat of the transition from the one to the other. 

The first epoch can be still farther divided into three pe- 
riods : (1) The Pre-Socratic philosophy, from Thales to 
the Sophists inclusive ; (2) Socrates, Plato, Aristotle ; (3) 
The Post-Aristotehan philosophy, including Neo-Platonism. 



22 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION III. 

GENERAL VIEW OF THE PEE-SOCEATIC PHILOSOPHY. 

1. The universal tendency of the Pre-Socratic philosophy 
is to find some principle for the explanation of nature. Na- 
ture, the most immediate, that which fii'st met the e3^e and 
was the most palpable, was that which first aroused the spirit 
of inquir}'. At the basis of its changing forms, beneath 
its manifold appearances, it was thought, must lie a first 
principle which abides the same through all change. What, 
then, it was asked, is this principle? What is the original 
ground of things? Or, more accurate^, what element of 
nature is the fundamental element? To answer this inquiry 
was the problem of the earlier Ionic natural pliilosophers.- 
One thought it to be water, another, air, and a third, an' 
original chaotic matter. 

2. The Pytliarjoreans attempted a higher solution of this 
problem. The proportions and dimensions of matter rather 
than its sensible concretion, seemed to them to furnish the 
true explanation of being. They, accordingly, adopted as 
the principle of their philosoph}^, that which expresses the ex- 
ternal relations of bodies, i.e., number. "Number is the 
essence of all things," was their thesis. Number is the 
mean between the immediate sensuous intuition and the pure 
thought. Number and measure have, to be sure, nothing to 
do with matter except as it possesses extension, and is capa- 
ble of division in space and time ; but yet we should have no 
numbers or measures if there were no matter, or sensuous 
intuition. This elevation above matter, which is at the same 
time a cleaving to matter, constitutes the essence and the 
position of Pythagoreanism. 

3. Next come the Eleatics, who step absolutely be3^ond 
tliat wliich is given in experience, and make a complete 



PEE-SOCEATIC PHILOSOPHY. 23 

abstraction of every thing material. This abstraction, this 
negation of all division in space and time, they take as their 
principle, and call it pure being. Instead of the sensuous 
principle of the Ionics, or the quantitative principle of the 
Pj^thagoreans, the Eleatics, therefore, adopt an intelligible 
principle. 

4. Herewith, the first, or analytical period, in the devel- 
opment of Grecian philosophy closes, to make way for the 
second, or sj'nthetic period. The Eleatics had sacrificed 
to then* principle of pure being the existence of the world 
and every finite thing. But tliis denial of nature and the 
world could not be maintained. The reality of both forced 
itself upon the attention, and even the Eleatics themselves 
admitted it, though in guarded and hypothetical terms. But 
from their abstract being there was no passage back to the 
sensuous and concrete ; their principle ought to have ex- 
plained the actual facts of existence, but it did not. To find 
a principle for the explanation of these, a principle which 
would account for the fact of becoming^ i.e., of change, vicis- 
situde, was now the problem. HeracUtus solved it by as- 
serting that becoming, or the unit}^ of being and not-being, 
is the absolute principle. He held that it belongs to the very 
essence of finite being to be in a continual flow, in an endless 
stream. "Every thing flows." We have here the concep- 
tion of a primordial energy, instead of the Ionic original 
matter, — the first attempt to explain being and its motion 
from a principle analytically attained. From the time of 
Heraclitus, this inquiry after the cause of becoming remained 
the chief interest and the moving spring of philosophical de- 
velopment. 

5. Becoming is the unity of being and not-being, and into 
these two elements is the Heraclitic principle consciously 
analj'-zed by the Atomists. Heraclitus had enunciated the 
principle of becoming, but only as a fact of experience. He 
had simply stated it as a law, but had not explained it. The 
necessity for this universal law yet remained to be proved. 



24 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Why is eveiy thing in a perpetual flow, — in an eternal move- 
ment? From the dj'namical combination of matter and the 
moving force, the next step was to a cousciousl}' determined 
distinction, to a mechanical division of the two. Thus Em- 
pedocles considered matter to be the abiding being, and force 
the ground of movement. We have here a combination of 
Ileraclitus and Parmeuides. But with Empedocles the mo- 
tive forces were mj^thical powers, love and hate ; while with 
the Atomists the}' were a pure, unconceived, and inconceiva- 
ble natural necessity. The result of this mechanical method 
of explaining nature was, therefore, rather the restatement 
than the explanation of becoming. 

6. Despairing of any merely materialistic explanation of the 
becoming, Anaxagoras placed a world-forming Intelligence 
\)y the side of matter. He recognized mind as the primal 
causality' , to which the existence of the world, together with 
its determined arrangement and conformity to design must 
be referred. In this, philosophy gained an important ideal 
l^rinciple. But Anaxagoras did not know how to fulh^ carry 
out his principles. Instead of a theoretical comprehension 
of the universe, instead of deriving being from the idea, 
he sought again for some mechanical explanation. His 
" world-forming reason" serves him only as a fii'st impulse, 
oi\\y as a motive force. It is to him a Deus ex macJiina. 
Notwithstanding, therefore, his glimpse of something higher 
than matter, Anaxagoras was only a plwsical philosopher, 
like his predecessors. Mind had not manifested itself to him 
as a true force above nature, as an organizing soul of the 
universe. 

7. The next step in the progress of thought is, therefore, 
to comprehend accurately' the distinction between mind and 
nature, and to recognize mind as something higher and con- 
tra-distinguished from all natural being. This problem fell 
to the Sojyhists. They entangled the thinking which had 
been confined to the given object in contradictions, and 
brought that objectivity which had before been exalted above 



THE EAELEER lOKIC PHILOSOPHERS. 25 

the subject, into direct antagonism with the dawning con- 
sciousness of the superiority of subjective thought. The So- 
l^hists developed their principle of subjectivity (Egohood), 
though at fii'st onl}^ negativel}', into the form of a uni- 
versal religious and political revolution. They stood forth 
as the destroyers of the whole edifice of thought that had 
been thus far built, until Socrates appeared, and opposed to 
this principle of empirical subjectivit}', that of absolute sub- 
jectivity', — that of mind in the form of a free moral will, — 
and comprehended thought positivel}' as something higher 
than existence, as the truth of all reality-. With the Sophists 
closes om- first period, for with them the oldest philosophy 
finds its self-destruction. 



SECTION IV. 

THE EAULIEU lOXIC PHTLOSOPHEES. 

1. Thales (640-550 b.c.) — At the head of the Ionic 
natm-al philosophers, and therefore at the head of philosoi:)h3', 
the ancients are generallj' agreed in placing Thales of Mile- 
tus, a cotemporary of Croesus and Solon. The philosophi- 
cal principle to which he owes his place in the history of phi- 
losophy is, that, " the principle (the primal, original ground) 
of all things is water ; from water every thing arises, and into 
water every thing returns." But the mere assumption that 
water is the original gTound of things was no advance beyond 
his m}i:h-making predecessors and their cosmologies. Aris- 
totle, himself, when speaking of Thales, refers to the old 
"theologians," — meaning, doubtless, primarily Homer, — 
who had ascribed to Oceanus and Tethj's, the origin of all 
things. Thales, however, merits his place as the beginner 
of philosoph}', because he made the first attempt to establish 
his physical principle, without resorting to a m3'thical expo- 
sition, and, therefore, introduced into philosophy a scientific 
2 



Zb A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

procedure. He was the first ayIio attempted a logical expla- 
nation of nature. "We cannot now sa^- with certainty upon 
what grounds his theorj' was based, though he might have 
been led to it b}' perceiving that moisture is essential to the 
germination and nourishment of things ; that warmth is de- 
veloped from it ; and that, generally, it might be the plastic, 
li\'ing, and live-gi\ing principle. From the condensation and 
expansion of this fundamental matter, he derives, as it seems, 
the changes of things ; though the wa}' in which this is done, 
he did not accuratel}' determine. 

The philosophical significance of Thales does not appear to 
extend any farther. He was not a speculative philosopher in 
the modern sense of the word. Philosophical literatui'e was 
at that time unknown, and he does not seem to have given 
any of his opinions a T\Titten form. On account of his ethico- 
political wisdom, he is numbered among the so-called " seven 
wise men," and the anecdotes which the ancients relate of 
him onl}' testif}' to his practical understanding. He is said, e.g. , 
to have first calculated an eclipse of the sun, to have super- 
intended the turning of the course of the Halj's for Croesus, 
etc. "When subsequent narrators relate that he had asserted 
the unity of the world, had conceived the idea of a world-soul, 
and had taught the immortality of the soul, it is doubtless an 
luihistorical reference of later ideas to a much less developed 
standpoint. 

2. Anaximander. — Anaximander of Miletus, sometimes 
represented by the ancients as a scholar and sometimes as 
a companion of Thales, but who was certainly a generation 
younger than the latter, sought to cany out still farther his 
principles. The original essence which he assumed, and 
which he is said to have been the first to name princii^le 
{o.px'})^ he defined as the "unlimited, eternal, and undeter- 
mined ground from which every thing proceeds, and into 
which all things, in order of time, return," as that which 
embraces all things and rules all things, and which, since it 
lies at the basis of all determinateness of the finite and tho 



THE EARLIER lOXIC PHILOSOPHERS. 27 

changeable, is itself infinite and uncleterminate. How we 
are to regard this original essence of Anaximander is a niat^ 
ter of dispute. Evident!}' it was not one of the four common 
elements ; though we must not, therefore, think it was some- 
thing incorporeal and immaterial. Anaximander probably 
conceived it as the original matter before it had separated into 
determined elements, — as that which was iii'st in the order of 
time, or what is in our day called the chemical indifference of 
elementary opposites. In this respect his original essence is 
indeed " unlimited" and " undetermined," i.e., has no deter- 
mination of quality nor limit of quantit}- : yet it is not. there- 
fore, in any way, a pure dj'uamical principle, as perhaps the 
*' friendship " and - enmity" of Empedocles might have been, 
but it is only a more philosophical expression for the same 
thought, which the old cosmogonies attempted to express in 
then' representation of chaos. Accordingly, Anaximander 
suffers the original opposition of cold and heat (i.e., the bases 
of the elements and of life) , to be separated from his original 
essence by virtue of an eternal movement immanent in it, — 
a clear proof that this essence was only the undeveloped, 
unanalyzed, potential being of these elemental opposites. 

3. AxAxiikiENES. — Anaximenes, who is called by some the 
pupil, and hy others the companion of Anaximander, retui'ned 
ver}' nearly to the view of Thales, in that he conceived the 
principle of all things to be "the unhmited, all-embracing, 
ever-moving au-," from which by expansion (fire) and conden- 
sation (water, earth, stone) , every thing is formed. The per- 
ception that air surrounds the whole world, and that breath 
is the condition of vital action, seems to have led him to this 
M-pothesis. 

4. Retrospect. — The whole philosophy of the thi-ee ear- 
liest Ionic philosophers may be reduced to these three points : 
viz., (1) the}' sought for the universal essence of concrete 
being ; (2) they found this essence in a material substance 
or substratum ; (3) they gave some intimations respecting 
the derivation of the fundamental forms of nature from this 
orisrmal matter. 



28 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION V. 

PYTHAGOEEANISM. 

1. Its Relative Position. — The development of the Ionic 
philosophy discloses a tendenc}^ to abstract from the immedi- 
ately given, particular quality of matter. It is this same ab- 
straction carried to a higher step, when we look away from tlie 
sensible concretion of matter in general, and no more regard 
its qualitative determinateness as water, air, etc., but direct 
our attention solel}^ to its quantitative determinateness, to its 
quantitative measure and relations ; when attention is directed 
not merel}' upon the substance of things, but also upon their 
spatial arrangement and form. But the peculiar nature of 
quantity is expressed by number, and this is the principle 
and stand-point of Pythagoreanism. 

2. Historical and Chronological. — The Pythagorean 
doctrine of number is referred to P3'thagoras of Samos, who 
is said to have flourished between 540 and 500 b.c. He 
dwelt during the latter part of his life at Crotona, in Magna 
Grecia, where, in order to effect the political and social regen- 
eration of the lower Italian cities, which were then wasted 
by the strifes of parties, he founded a society whose members 
bound themselves to purit}^ and sanctity of life, to the closest 
friendship for one another, and to cooperation in maintain- 
ing the morality, discipline, order, and harmony of the whole 
community. What is related concerning the life of Pythag- 
oras, his journe3'S, his political influence in the lower Ital- 
ian cities, etc., is so thorough^ interwoven with traditions, 
legends, and palpable fabrications, that we can be certain at 
no point that we stand upon a historical basis. Not only the 
old Pythagoreans, who have spoken of him, delighted in the 
mysterious and esoteric, but even his Nco-Platonic biogra- 
phers, Porphyry and Jamblichus, have treated his life as a 



PYTHAGOEEANISM. 29 

historico-philosophical romance. We have the same uncer- 
tainty in reference to his doctrines, ?'.e., in reference to his 
share in the number- theory. Aristotle, e.g., does not ascribe 
this to Pythagoras himself, but only to the Pythagoreans 
generally ; from which we may suppose that it first received 
its complete development within the society which he founded. 
The accounts which are given respecting his school have no 
certainty till the time of Socrates, a hundred years after 
Pythagoras. Among the few sources of light which we have 
upon this subject, are the mention made in Plato's PJicedo 
of the Pythagorean Philolaus and his doctrines, and the writ- 
ings of Arch3^as, a cotemporary of Plato. We possess in 
fact the Pythagorean doctrine only in the manner in which 
it was taken up by Philolaus, Eur}i:us, and Archj'tas, since 
its earlier adherents left nothing in a written form. 

3. The Pythagorean Principle. — The fundamental 
thought of the Pythagorean philosophy is that of proportion 
and harmonj^. This thought is, for it, both the principle of 
practical life, and the supreme law of the universe. The 
Pythagorean cosmology regards the universe as a S3'mmet- 
ricall}' ordered w^hole, uniting harmonious^ in itself all the 
differences and antitheses of being, — a view which is most 
clearly expressed in the Pythagorean doctrine, that all cos- 
mical bodies or spheres (including the earth) revolve in fixed 
orbits about a common middle point, a central fire, from 
which light, warmth, and life stream forth into the whole 
universe. The more strictly metaphysical confirmation of 
this idea, that the world is a whole, harmoniously articu- 
lated in accordance with fixed forms and proportions, is the 
Pythagorean doctrine of number. Through number alone, 
the quantitative relations of things, extension, magnitude, 
figure (triangular, quadrangular, cubic, etc.), combination, 
distance, etc., obtain their peculiar character ; the forms and 
proportions of things can all be reduced to number. There- 
fore, it was concluded, since without form and proportion 
nothing can exist, number must be the principle of things 



30 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

themselves, as well as of the order in which they manifest 
themselves in the world. The accounts of the ancients are 
not at one as regards the question, whether the Pythagoreans 
supposed number to be an actual, material, or a purel}' ideal 
principle of things, i.e., the archet^'pe in accordance with 
which every thing is formed and ordered. Even the expres- 
sions of Aristotle seem to contradict each other. At one 
time he speaks of Pythagoreanism in the former, and, at an- 
other, in the latter sense. From this circumstance modern 
scholars have concluded that the Pythagorean doctrine of 
numbers had several forms of development ; that some of the 
Pythagoreans regarded numbers as the substances and others 
as the archetypes of things. Aristotle, however, intimates 
how the two statements may be reconciled with each other. 
Originall}', without doubt, the Pythagoreans regarded number 
as the material, the inherent essence of things, and therefore 
Aristotle places them together with the Hylicists (the Ionic 
natural philosophers), and says of them, that " the}^ held things 
to be numbers" {Metaph. I., 5, 6). But, as even the H3li- 
cists did not identif}- their matter, e.g.^ water, immediately 
with the sensuous thing, but only assumed it to be the funda- 
mental element, the original form of the individual thing, so, 
on the other side, numbers also might be regarded as similar 
fundamental types ; and therefore Aristotle might say of the 
Pythagoreans, that "they held numbers to be a more ade- 
quate expression of the original form of being than water, 
air, etc." But, if there still remains a degree of uncertainty 
in the expressions of Aristotle respecting the sense of the 
Pythagorean doctrine of numbers, it can onl3'have its ground 
in tlie fact that the Pythagoreans did not make any distinc- 
tion between an ideal and material principle, but contented 
themselves with the undeveloped view, that number is the 
essence of things, — that every thing is number. 

4. Tin-: dakuyinc; out of this Principle. — From the very 
nature of the "number-principle," it follows that its complete 
appUcation to the real world could only lead to a fruitless 



PYTHAGOEEANISM. 81 

and empty symbolism. By separating number into its two 
species, even and odd, as well as into the antithesis of limited 
and unlimited, which is inherent in the principle of all num- 
ber, unity, and applying it in this form to astronomy, music, 
psychology, ethics, etc., there arose combinations like the 
following : one, is the point, two, the line, three, the superfi- 
cies, four, extension in three dimensions, five, the constitu- 
tion of a bod}^, etc. Still farther, the soul is a musical 
harmony, as is also virtue, etc. Not only the philosophical, 
but even the historical interest here ceases, since the ancients 
themselves — as was unavoidable from the arbitrary nature 
of such combinations — have given the most contradictory 
accounts of them, some affirming that the Pj^thagoreans re- 
duced righteousness to the number three, others, that they 
reduced it to the number four, others again to five, and still 
others to nine. Naturally, from such a vague and arbitrary 
philosophizing, there would earl}^ arise, in this, more than in 
other schools, a great diversity of views, one ascribing one 
signification to a certain mathematical form, and another an- 
other. In this mysticism of numbers, that which alone has! 
truth and value, is the thought, which lies at the ground of 
it all, that there prevails in the phenomena of nature a ra- 
tional order, harmonj^, and conformity to law, and that these 
laws of nature can be expressed by measure and number. 
But the Pythagorean school hid this truth under extravagant 
fancies, as vapid as they are unbridled. 

The physics of the Pythagoreans possesses little scientific 
value, with the exception of their cosmological doctrine re- 
specting the circular motion of the earth and stars. Their 
ethic is also defective. What we have remaining of it relates 
more to the Pj^thagorean life, i.e.^ to the practice and disci- 
pline of their order, than to their philosophy. The whole 
tendency of Pythagoreanism was, in a practical respect, as- 
cetic, and directed to a strict culture of the character. As 
showing this, we need only to cite their conception of the 
body as the prison of a soul which has descended from a 



32 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

higher world ; their doctrine of the transmigi'ation of souls 
into the bodies of brutes, from which onlj^ a pure and pious 
life afforded exemption ; their representations of the terrible 
torments of the lower world ; and their prescript that man 
should regard himself as the property of God, should obey 
God in all things, and strive to become like Him, — ideas to 
which Plato refers (particularly in the Phcedo), and which 
he carried to a more complete development. 



SECTION VI. 

THE ELEATICS. 

1. Relation of the Eleatic Principle to the Pythago- 
rean. — While the Pythagoreans had made matter, in so far 
as it is quantitative, manifold, and divisible, the basis of 
their philosophizing, and had in this onl}' abstracted from 
the definite elementary constitution of matter, the Eleatics 
carried this process of abstraction to its ultimate limit, and 
made, as the principle of their philosophy, a total abstrac- 
tion from every finite determinateness, from every change 
and vicissitude which belongs to concrete being. While the 
Pj'thagoreans had held fast to the form of being as it exists 
in space and time, the Eleatics reject this, and make the 
negation of all juxtaposition in space and succession in time 
their fundamental thought. " Onl}^ being is, and there is no 
not-being, nor becoming." This being is the purely undeter- 
mined, changeless ground of all things. It is not being m 
becoming, but it is being as exclusive of all becoming ; in 
other words, it is pure being which can be apprehended only 
in thought. 

Eleaticism is, therefore, Monism, in so far as it strove to 
refer the manifoldncss of all being to a single ultimate princi- 



THE ELEATICS. 33 

pie ; but on the other hand it becomes Dualism, in so far as 
it could neither carr}^ out its denial of concrete existence, 
I.e., the phenomenal world, nor 3'et derive the latter from its 
presupposed original ground. The phenomenal world, though 
it might be explained as onl}' an empt}* appearance, did yet 
exist ; and, since the sensuous perception of it could not be 
altogether ignored, there must be allowed it, hvpotheticall}- 
at least, the right of existence. Its origin must be explained, 
even though with reservations. This contradiction of an un- 
reconciled Dualism between being and existence, is the point 
where the Eleatic philosophy is at war with itself, — though, 
in the beginning of the school, with Xenophanes, this does 
not yet appear. The principle itself, with its results, is onl}^ 
fully apparent in the lapse of time. It has three periods of 
formation which successively appear in three successive gen- 
erations. The foundation of the Eleatic philosoph}^ belongs 
to Xenoplianes; its systematic development to Parmenides ; 
its completion, and, in part, its dissolution, to Zeno and 3/e- 
lissus, — the latter of whom we can pass by. 

2. Xexophaxes. — The originator of the Eleatic tendency 
was Xenophanes. He was born at Colophon in Asia Minor ; 
emigrated to Elea, a Phocsean colony in Lucania, and was a 
3'ounger cotemporarj' of Pythagoras. He appears to have 
first uttered the proposition, "all is one," without, how- 
ever, indicating by more exact definitions of this unitj^, 
whether it was intellectual or material. Tui'ning his atten- 
tion, sa.js Aristotle, upon the world as a whole, he called the 
unity which he found there, God. God is the One. The 
Eleatic "One and All" (ev koI -n-av) had, therefore, with 
Xenophanes, a theological and religious character. The idea 
of the unit}' of God, and opposition to the anthropomor- 
phism of the popular religion, is his starting-point. He de- 
claimed against the delusion that the gods were born, that 
they had a human voice or form, and railed at Homer and 
Hesiod for attributing to the gods robber}', adulter}^, and 
deceit. According to him, the Godhead is all ej-e, all ear, 



34 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

all understanding, unmoved, undivided, caknl}' mling all 
things b}- his thought, like men neither in form nor in under- 
standing. In this wav, thinking mainl}- of removmg from 
the Godhead all iSnite determinations and predicates, and 
holding fast to its unit}' and unchangeableness, he declared 
this doctrine of its natm'e to be the highest philosophical 
principle, without, however, directing this principle polemi- 
calh' against finite being, or carrying it out in its negative 
application. 

3. Parmexides. — The proper head of the Eleatic school 
is Parmenides of Elea, a pupil, or at least an adherent, of 
Xenophanes. Though we possess but little reliable informa- 
tion respecting the circumstances of his life, 3'et we have, in 
inverse proportion, the harmonious voice of all antiquity in 
an expression of reverence for the Eleatic sage, and of admi- 
ration for the depth of his mind, as well as for the earnest- 
ness and elevation of his character. The sa3ing — "a life 
like that of Parmenides," became afterwards a proverb among 
the Greeks. 

Parmenides, like Xenophanes, emliodicd his philosophy in 
an epic poem, of which we have still important fragments. 
It is divided into two parts. In the first he discusses the 
conception of being. Rising far above the ^-et unmediated 
view of Xenophanes, he attains a conception of pm-e, simple 
being, which he posits as absolutely opposed to the manifold 
and changeable, inasmuch as this latter has no existence, 
and consequently cannot be thought. From this conception 
of being he not onh' excludes all becoming and departing, 
but also all relation to space and time, all divisibility, diver- 
sity, and movement. Being he explains as something which 
has not become and which does not depart, as complete and 
of its own kind, as unalterable and without limit, as indivisi- 
ble and present though not in time, as completel}' and uni- 
versally self-identical ; and, since all these are only negative, 
lie ascribes to it, also, as a positive determination — thought. 
'' Being and thought " are, therefore, with Parmenides, " one 



THE ELEATICS. 35 

and the same." This pure thought, dhected upon pure be- 
ing, he declares to be the only true and undeceptive knowl- 
edge, in opposition to the deceptive notions which are based 
upon the manifoldness and mutability of the phenomenal. 
Nor does he hesitate to assert that to be non-existent and an 
illusion which mortals regard as truth, viz., becoming and 
departing, being and not-being, change of place and vicissi- 
tude of circumstance. We must, therefore, be careful not to 
mistake "the One" of Parmenides, for the collective unity 
of all concrete being. 

So much for the first part of Parmenides' poem. After the 
principle that being alone is has been developed according 
to its negative and positive aspects, the system would seem 
to be completed. But there follow^s a second part, which is 
occupied solel}- with a hj^^othetical attempt to explain the 
phenomenal world, the " non-existent," and give it a phj'sical 
derivation. Though fii-mly convinced that according to rea- 
son and conception " the One " alone exists, Parmenides was 
3'et unable to avoid recognizing the manifoldness and muta- 
bility of the phenomenal. Forced, therefore, by sensuous 
perception to enter upon a discussion of the phenomenal 
world, he prefaces this second part of his poem with the 
remark, that he had now concluded what he had to saj^ re- 
specting the truth, and was thereafter to deal only with the 
opinion of a mortal. Unfortunatel}', this second part has 
been ver}' imperfectly transmitted to us. Enough, however, 
remains to show, that he explained the phenomena of nature 
from the mingling of two unchangeable elements, which Aris- 
totle designates as heat and cold, fire and earth. Concern- 
ing these two elements, Aristotle remarks still farther that 
Parmenides associated warmth with being, and the other ele- 
ment with not-being. All things are composed of these two 
opposites : the more fire, so much the more being, life, con- 
sciousness ; the more cold and immobilit}', so much the more 
lifelessness. The principle of the unity of all being is re- 
tained only in the Parmenidean doctrine, that, in man, the 



36 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

sensitive and rational principles, bod}' and soul, are one and 
the same. 

It is scarcel}' necessarj' to remark that between the two 
parts of the Parmenidean philosoph}' — between the doctrine 
of being and the doctrine of appeai'ance — there can exist 
no inner scientific connection. What Parmenides absolutely 
denies in the first part, and indeed declares to be unutterable, 
viz., the non-existent, the man}' and the changeable, he yet 
in the second part admits to have an existence at least in 
the conceptions of men. But it is clear that the non-existent 
cannot exist even in conception, if it does not exist generally 
and everywhere, and that the attempt to explain a non- 
existent of conception is in complete contradiction with his 
exclusive recognition of being. This contradiction, this un- 
explained juxtaposition of being and not-being, of the one 
and the many, Zeno, a disciple of Parmenides, sought to 
remove, by dialectically annihilating sensuous conception, and 
with it the world of the non-existent, by means of the con- 
ception of being. 

4. Zeno. — The Eleatic Zeno was born about 500 B.C., and 
was a disciple of Parmenides. He perfected, dialectically, the 
doctrine of his master, and carried out to its limit the ab- 
straction of the Eleatic One, in opposition to the manifold- 
ness and determinateness of the finite. He justified the 
doctrine of a single, simple, and unchangeable being indi- 
rectl}', by showing up tiie contradictions in which the ordi- 
nary conceptions of the phenomenal world become involved. 
While Parmenides affirms that there is only the One, Zeno 
shows polemically that there can be neither (1) multiplicity, 
nor (2) movement, since these conceptions lead to contra- 
dictory results. (1) The many is the sum of the units of 
which it is composed ; an actual unit (an absolute simple, 
which can never involve multiplicity) , however, is indivisible ; 
but that which is indivisil)le has no magnitude (magnitude 
being the condition of divisil)ility) ; therefore the many can 
have no magnitude and must be infinitely little. If this con- 



THE ELEATICS. 37 

elusion is rejected (on the gi'ound that what has no magni- 
tude is equal to zero — nothing) the component units of the 
many must be posited as independent quanta. But that 
alone is an independent quantum^ which both itself possesses 
magnitude, and is separated from other quanta by something 
which also possesses magnitude (for otherwise it would coa- 
lesce with them). Moreover, these separating magnitudes 
must, for the same reason, be separated from those which 
the}" separate, and so on. Ever}- thing, therefore, is sepa- 
rated from every thing else b}' infinitely numerous quanta; all 
limited and definite magnitude disappears ; infinite magni- 
tude alone is left. Further, if the many exists, it must be 
limited in number ; for there must be in it just as many units 
as are in it, no more and no less. But the man}' must be 
just as trul}' unlimited in number ; for between any two 
particular quanta (units) there must exist a third (the 
separating quantuyn or unit) and so on. (2) A moving 
bod}', in order to traverse a given space, must first pass 
through one -half of the distance, then through one-half of 
what is left, and so on ; i.e., it must pass thi'ough an infinite 
number of spaces — which is impossible. Therefore there can 
be no transition from one point in space to another, no move- 
ment. In fact, motion cannot even be begun, for every por- 
tion (including the first unit) of the space which is to be 
traversed is separable into an infinite number of parts. Again, 
rest signifies continued existence in one and the same place. 
Now, if we di\dde the time occupied by the flight of an arrow 
into instants {notes) , during each of these instants the arrow 
will be in one place only ; therefore it is continually at rest 
[transition from one position to another, in time, is impos- 
sible] , and its motion must be merely apparent. On account 
of these arguments, which first pointed out, with at least 
approximate correctness, the difiiculties and antinomies which 
lie in the thought of the infinite di\^sibility of matter, space, 
and time, Aristotle called Zeno the discoverer of dialectic. 
Zeno also exerted a strong influence upon Plato. 



38 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Although the philosophizmg of Zeno is the completion of 
the Eleatic principle, it is at the same time the beginning of its 
dissolution. Zeno apprehended the opposition of being and 
existence, of the one and the man}^, so abstractlj^, and canied 
it so far, that with him the inner contradiction of the Eleatic 
principle comes forth still more boldly than with Parmenides ; 
for the more logical he is in the denial of the phenomenal 
world, so much the more striking must be the contradiction, 
of appl3ing, on the one hand, his whole philosophical activity 
to the refutation of the sensuous representation, while, on the 
other, he sets over against it a doctrine which destroys the 
very possibility of a false representation. 



SECTION YII. 

HERACLITUS. 

1. Relation of the Heraclitic Princeple to the Ele- 
atic. — Being and existence, the one and the man}^, could not 
be united b}' the principle of the Eleatics ; the Monism which 
they had striven for had resulted in an ill-concealed Dualism. 
Heraclitus reconciled this contradiction by afhrming the truth 
of being and not-being, of the one and the man}', to be the 
coexistence of both, — hecoming. ^Yhile the Eleatics could 
not extricate themselves from the dilemma that the world is 
either being or not-being, Heraclitus removes the difficulty 
b}' answering — it is neither being nor not-being, because it 
is both. 

2. Historical and Chronological. — Heraclitus, surnamed 
by later writers the obscure, was born at Ephesus, and flour- 
ished about 460 b.c, somewhat later than Xenophanes, and 
nearly cotcmporaneously with Parmenides. He was the pro- 
foundcst of the Pre-Socratic philosophers. He embodied his 



HEUACLITUS. 39 

philosophical thoughts in a work " Concerning Nature," of 
which we possess only small fragments. Its rapid transi- 
tions, its expressions concise and full of meaning, the general 
philosophical originality of Heraclitus, and the antique char- 
acter of the earliest prose writings, all combine to make this 
work so hard to understand that its difficulty ver}^ earl}' be- 
came proverbial. Socrates said concerning it, that " what he 
understood of it was excellent, and he had no doubt that what 
he did not understand was equally good ; but the book re- 
quired an expert swimmer." Later writers, particular!}' the 
Stoics, have written commentaries upon it. 

3. The Principle of BECOiiixa. — The ancients unite in 
ascribing to Herachtus the principle that the totality of things 
should be conceived to be in an eternal flow, in an uninter- 
rupted movement and transition, and that all permanence is 
iUusory. " Into the same stream," so runs a sa}ing of Hera- 
clitus, "we descend, and at the same time we do not de- 
scend. For into the same stream we cannot possibly descend 
twice, since it is always scattering and collecting itself again, 
or rather it at the same time flows to us and from us." Noth- 
ing, he said, remains the same ; every thing comes and goes, 
vanishes and reappears under different forms ; out of all comes 
all, from life death, from death life. There is eternally and 
everywhere only this one process of change, of origination 
and destniction. There is, therefore, gTOund for the asser- 
tion that Heraclitus had banished all rest and continuance 
from the totality of things ; and it is doubtless in this very 
respect that he accuses the eye and the ear of deception, be- 
cause they deceive men with an appearance of permanence 
where there is in reality only an uninterrupted change. 

Herachtus exhibits more clearly the nature of his princi- 
ple, becoming, when he intimates that all becoming is to be 
thought of as the product (synthesis) of conflicting antitheses, 
as the harmonious union of opposing characteristics. If being 
did not continually separate itself into opposites which are 
distinct from one another and mutually antithetical, which 



40 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

parti}' repel and destro}', partly attract and supplement one 
another, ever}^ thing would be destroyed, all reality and all 
life would cease. Hence the two well-known propositions : 
"strife is the father of things," and, "the one, separating 
itself from itself, reunites with itself like the harmony of the 
bow and the lyre," i.e., unit}' exists in the world onl}- so far 
as the world-life separates into antitheses in whose reunion 
and adjustment this ver}^ unity consists. Unity pre-supposes 
dualit}', harmony discord, attraction repulsion, and only 
through the latter can the former be realized. "Unite," — 
so runs another of his saj'ings, — "whole and part, centripe- 
tence and centrifugence, harmony and discord, then will the 
one become all and the all one." 

4. The Principle of Fire. — In what relation does the 
principle of fire, which is also ascribed to Heraclitus, stand 
to the principle of the becoming? Aristotle says that he 
adopted fire as the principle of things in the same way that 
Thales adopted water, and Anaximenes air. But it is clear 
we must not interpret this to mean that Heraclitus regarded 
fire as the original material or fundamental element of things, 
after the manner of the H3'licists. If he ascribed reaUt}' onl}' 
to becoming, it is impossible that he should have added to 
this becoming an elemental matter as fundamental substance. 
When, therefore, Heraclitus calls the world an ever-living 
fire, which in definite stages and degrees extinguishes and 
again enkindles itself, when he sa3'S that every thing can be 
exchanged for fire, and fire for every thing, just as we barter 
things for gold and gold for things, he can onl}' mean thereby 
that fire, that restless, all-consuming, all-transfoiTuing, and 
3Tt, through heat, all-vivifying element, represents the abid- 
ing power of tliis eternal transformation and transposition, in 
other words, the conception of life, in the most obvious and 
efTective way. We might call fire, in the Heraclitic sense, the 
symbol or the manifestation of becoming, if it were not also 
witli him the substratum of movement, i.e., the means of 
whicli tlie power of movement, which is antecedent to all 



HERACLITUS. 41 

matter, avails itself in order to bring out the living process 
of things. In the same way Heraclitus goes on to explain 
the manifoldness of things, b}^ affirming that they arise from 
certain hindrances and a partial extinction of this fire, in 
consequence of which it becomes condensed into material ele- 
ments, first air, then water, then earth. But on the other 
hand the fire just as truly obtains the preponderance over 
these obstructions and enkindles itself anew. These two pro- 
cesses of the extinction and re-ignition of this fire-force, 
according to Heraclitus, interchange perpetually in an eternal 
alternation ; and from this he concluded that at certain defi- 
nite periods the world resolves itself into this primal fire, in 
order therefrom to reconstruct itself anew, and so on. More- 
over he asserts fire to be also the principle of movement in 
individual things, of phj^sical as well as of spiritual vitality. 
The soul itself is a fiery vapor ; its power and perfection de- 
pend upon its freedom from all coarser and duller materials. 
Heraclitus, in his practical philosophy, bids us follow reason 
instead of the deceitful illusions of sensuous intuition and 
conception which fetter us to the transitory and perishable ; 
he teaches us to perceive the true, the abiding, in the change- 
able, and leads us to 3ield quietly to the necessary order of 
the universe, and to recognize in that which appears to be 
evil an element cooperating for the harmony of the whole. 

5. Transition to the Atomists. — The Eleatic and Hera- 
clitic principles are diametrically opposed to one another. 
While Heraclitus destroys all abiding being in an absolutely 
flowing becoming, so, on the other hand, Parmenides destroys 
all becoming in an absolutely abiding being ; and while the 
former charges the eye and the ear with deception, in that 
they transform the flowing becoming into a quiescent being, 
the latter also accuses these same senses of an untrue repre- 
sentation, in that they draw the abiding being into the move- 
ment of the becoming. We can therefore say that the being 
and the becoming are equally valid antitheses, which demand 
a further synthesis and reconciliation. Heraclitus regarded 



42 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the phenomenal world as an existing contradiction, and clung 
to this contradiction as to an ultimate fact. But the mere 
assertion that this becoming, which the Eleatics had thought 
themselves obliged to deny entirelj^ is the only true principle, 
was no explanation of it. The question continually returned 
— wh}' is all being a becoming ? Why does the one contin- 
uall}^ differentiate itself into the many? To give an answer 
to this question, i.e., to explain becoming from the pre-sup- 
posed principle of being, forms the standpoint and problem 
of the Einpedoclean and Atomistic philosophy. 



SECTION VIII. 

EMPEDOCLES. 

1. General Vievt. — Empedocles of Agrigentum is ex- 
tolled by the ancients as a statesman, orator, natural phi- 
losopher, physician, and poet, and also as a seer and worker 
of miracles. He flourished about 440 b.c, and was conse- 
quently 3'ounger than Parmenides and Heraclitus. He wrote 
a didactic poem concerning nature, which has been preserved 
to us in quite extensive fragments. His philosophical s^'stem 
may be characterized in brief, as an attempt to combine the 
Eleatic being and the Heraclitic becoming. Starting with 
the Eleatic thought, that neither can any thing which has 
previousl}^ existed become, nor any thing which now is de- 
part, he assumed as unchangeable being, four eternal original 
materials, which, though divisible, are independent, and un- 
derived from each other. In this we have what in our da}' 
are called the four elements. With this Eleatic thought he 
united also the Heraclitic view of nature, and conceived these 
four elements to become mingled together, and molded by 
the operation of two motive forces, — a unifying force, which 



EMPEDOCLES. 43 

he names friendship, and a diremptive force, which he names 
strife. Original!}^, these four elements were absolutely alilie 
and immovable, dwelling together in the sphairos^ that is, in 
the pm-e and perfect, spherical divine prunordial universe, 
where friendship united them, until gradually strife pressing 
from the circumference to the centre of the sphere (i.e., 
attaining a separating activit}') , broke this union, whereupon 
the formation of the world of contrarieties inunediately began 
as the result. 

2. The Four ELEiiExrs. — With his doctrine of the four 
elements, Empedocles, on the one side, may be joined to the 
series of Ionic phj'sicists ; but, on the other hand, he is ex- 
cluded from this b}' his assumption that the original elements 
are four in number. He is distinctly said b}^ the ancients to 
have originated the theor}^ of the four elements. He is more 
definitely distinguished from the H^iicists, from the fact that 
he ascribed to his fom* "root-elements" a changeless being, 
by virtue of which they neither arise from each other nor are 
transformed into each other, and are capable of no alteration 
in themselves, but only of a change in their mutual relations. 
Every thing which is called arising and departing, every 
change, rests therefore only upon the commingling and sep- 
aration of these eternal original elements ; the inexhaustible 
manifoldness of being rests upon the different proportions in 
which these elements are combined. All becoming is thus 
conceived to be onlj' change of place. In this we have a 
mechanical in opposition to a dynamical ex]^)lanation of nature. 

3. The Two Powers. — Whence now can becoming arise, 
if in matter itself there is found no principle which can afford 
an explanation of change? Since Empedocles did not, like 
the Eleatics, denj- that there was change, nor 3'et, Uke Hera- 
clitus, introduce it as an indwelling principle in matter, there 
was no other course left him but to place, by the side of 
matter, a moving power. The opposition of the one and the 
many which had been set up b}^ his predecessors, and which 
demanded an explanation, led him to ascribe to this mov- 



44 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

ing power two originall}^ diverse dii'ections, one separation, 
diremption (repulsion) , the other attraction. The separation 
of the one into the man}^, and the union again of the many 
into the one, had indicated an opposition of powers which 
Heraclitus had ah-ead}- recognized. While now Parmenides 
starting from the one had made love his principle, and Hera- 
clitus starting from the man}' had made strife his, Empedo- 
cles makes the combination of the two the principle of his 
philosoph3\ He did not, however, suflScientl}' define the 
spheres of action of these two forces in their mutual limi- 
tation. Although to friendship belongs peculiarlj' the attrac- 
tive, and to strife the repelling function, 3'et Empedocles, on 
the other hand, suffers strife to have in the formation of the 
world a unif3-ing, and friendship a dividing effect. In fact, 
the complete separation of a dividing and unifying power in 
the movement of the becoming, is an unmaintainable abstrac- 
tion. 

4. Relation of the Empedoclean to the Eleatic akd 
Heraclitic Philosophy. — Empedocles, by placing, as the 
principle of the becoming, a moving power by the side of 
matter, makes his philosoph}' a mediation, or more properly' 
a collocation, of the Eleatic and Heraclitic principles. He 
has interwoven these two principles in equal proportions in 
his system. With the Eleatics he denied all arising and de- 
parting, I.e., the transition of being into not-being, and of 
not-being into being ; and with Heraclitus he endeavored to 
find an explanation for change. From the former he derived 
the abiding, unchangeable being of his fundamental matter, 
and from the latter the principle of the moving power. With 
the Eleatics, in fine, he conceived true being in an original 
and undistinguishable unity as a sphere, and with Heraclitus, 
he regarded the present world as a continuous product of con- 
tending forces and antitheses. He has, therefore, been prop- 
erl}' called an Eclectic, who united the fundamental thoughts 
of his two predecessors, though not alwa3's in a logical way. 



THE ATOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 45 

SECTION IX. 

THE ATOlNnSTIC PHILOSOPHY. 

1. Its Propounders. — Empeclocles had sought to effect a 
combination of the Eleatic and Heraclitic principles, — the 
same was attempted, though in a different wa}- , by the Atom- 
ists, Leucippus and Democritus. Democritus, the j^ounger 
and better known of the two, was the son of rich parents, 
and was born about 460 b.c. in Abdera, an Ionian colonj^ 
He travelled extensivel}", and no Greek before the time of 
Aristotle possessed such varied attainments. He embodied 
the wealth of his collected knowledge in a series of writings, 
of which, however, onl}^ a few fragments have come down to 
us. For rhythm and elegance of language, Cicero compared 
him with Plato. He died in a good old age. 

2. The Atoms. — The Atomists did not, like Empedocles, 
derive all specific phenomenal quality from a certain num- 
ber of qualitatively determined and distinguishable original 
materials, but they derived it from an originally unlimited 
number of constituent elements, or atoms, which were homo- 
geneous in quality, but diverse in quantity. These atoms are 
unchangeable material particles, possessing indeed extension, 
but 3'et indivisible, and differing from one another only in 
size, form, and weight. As being, and without qualit}^, they 
are entirely incapable of any transformation or qualitative 
change ; and, therefore, all becoming is, as with Empedocles, 
only a change of place. The manifoldness of the phenomenal 
world is only to be explained from the different form, dispo- 
sition, and arrangement of the atoms as they become, in 
various ways, united. 

3. The Fulness and the Void.— The atoms, in order to 
be atoms, — i.e., undivided and impenetrable unities, — must 
be mutually limited and separated. There must be some- 



46 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

thing set over against them which preserves them as atoms, 
and which is the original cause of their separateness and 
mutual independence. This is the void space, or more 
strictly the intervals which are found between the atoms, and 
which prevent then- mutual contact. The atoms, as being 
and absolute fulness, and the interval between them, as the 
void and not-being, are two determinations which only repre- 
sent in a real and objective wa}', what are in thought, as 
logical conceptions, the two elements in the Heraclitic becom- 
ing, viz., being and not-being. But since the void space is 
one determination of being, it must possess objective reality 
no less than the atoms ; and Democritus even went so far as 
to expressly affirm, in opposition to the Eleatics, that " being 
is no more real than nothing." 

4. The Atomistic Necessity. — Democritus, like Empe- 
docles, though far more extensively than he, attempted to 
answer the question — Whence arise change and movement? 
Why do the atoms enter into these manifold combinations, 
and bring forth such a wealth of inorganic and organic forms ? 
Democritus attempted to solve this problem by affirming that 
the ground of movement lies in the nature of the atoms them- 
selves, which the void space permits alternately to unite and 
separate. Atoms of different weight, floating about in the 
void, impinge on one another. In this way there arises an 
ever-widening movement throughout the entire mass, by vir- 
tue of which, since atoms of similar form tend to group them- 
selves together, different combinations of the atoms come 
into existence. These combinations again, b}^ their veiy na- 
ture, tend to dissolution ; hence the transitoriness of indi- 
vidual things. But this explanation of the formation of the 
world reall}' explains nothing. It is merely a ver}^ abstract 
conception of an infinite causal series, but not a final ground 
of all the manifestations of becoming and of change. Such 
a final ground was still to be sought, and as Democritus ex- 
pressly declared that it could not lie in reason (i/ovs) , where 
Anaxagoras placed it, he could only find it in an absolute 



THE ATOMISTIC PHILOSOPJSY. 47 

necessit}-, or a necessary pre-determinateness {avdyKrj) . This 
he adopted as his " final ground," and is said to have named 
it chance (r^x^y), in opposition to the inquiry after final 
causes, or the Anaxagorean teleology. Polemical attacks 
upon the popular deities, — the common belief in whose exist- 
ence Democritus explained to be the result of fear occasioned 
by atmospheric and celestial phenomena, — and a more and 
more openly declared atheism and naturalism were the promi- 
nent characteristics of the later Atomistic school, which, with 
Diagoras of Melos, the so-called atheist, culminated in a 
complete sophistic. 

5. Relative Position of the Atomistic Philosophy. — 
Hegel characterizes the relative position of the Atomistic 
Philosophy as follows : " In the Eleatic Philosophy being and 
not-being stand as antitheses, — being alone is, and not-being 
is not; in the Heraclitic idea, being and not-being are the 
same, and the unity of the two, i.e. the becoming, is the 
predicate of concrete being ; but being and not-being, as ob- 
jectively determined, or in other words, as appearing to the 
sensuous intuition, constitute the antithesis of the fulness and 
the void. Parmenides, Heraclitus, and the Atomists aU sought 
for the abstract universal ; Parmenides found it in being ^ Hera- 
clitus in process, and the Atomists in being per se." So much 
of this as ascribes to the Atomists the characteristic predicate 
of being per se is doubtless correct, — but the real thought of 
the Atomistic S3^stem is rather analogous with the Empedoc- 
lean, namely, to explain by the pre-supposition of these inde- 
pendent unqualified substances (atoms) the possibility of the 
becoming. To this eud the not-being or the void, i.e., the side 
which is opposed to the Eleatic principle, is elaborated with 
no less care than the side which harmonizes with it, i.e., the 
^'iew that the atoms are without quality and unchangeable. 
The Atomistic Philosophy is, therefore, a mediation between 
the Eleatic and the Heraclitic principles. It is Eleatic in 
affirming the indestructible individuality of the atoms ; Hera- 
clitic, in declaring their multeity and manifoldness. It is 



48 A. HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Elcatic in its assumption of an absolute fulness in the atoms, 
and Heraclitic in maintaining the reality of not-being, i.e., 
the void space. It is Eleatic in its denial of becoming, i.e., 
of arising and departing, — and Heraclitic in its affirmation 
that to the atoms belong movement and a capacity for un- 
limited combinations. Democritus carried out his leading 
thought more logically than Empedocles, and we might even 
say that his sj'stem is the perfection of a purely mechanical 
explanation of nature, since all subsequent Atomists, even to 
our own day, have onl}^ repeated his fundamental conceptions. 
But the great defect which cleaves to every Atomistic sj^stem 
Aristotle has justty recognized, when he shows that it is a 
contradiction to set up that which is corporeal or space-filling 
as indivisible, and thus to derive the extended from that which 
has no extension ; and that, finally, the unconscious and un- 
intelligible necessity of Democritus is especially defective, in 
that it totally banishes from nature all conception of design. 
It is this latter fault, common to all previous systems, which 
Anaxagoras attempted to remove b}^ his doctrine of an in- 
telligence acting in accordance with design. 



SECTION X. 



ANAXAGORAS. 



1. His Personal History. — Anaxagoras was born at 
Clazomenai, about 500 B.C., of a rich and influential family. 
Soon after the Persian war he removed to Athens and lived 
there until, having been accused of impiety, he fled to Lamp- 
sacus, where he died at the age of seventy-two. He was an- 
other of those thinkers who recognized in the investigation 
of nature and its laws their life-problem. He it' was who 
first planted philosophy at Athens, which from that time on 



ANAXAGOEAS. 49 

became the centre of intellectual life in Greece. Through his 
personal relations to Pericles, Euripides, and other important 
men, he exerted a marked influence upon the culture of the 
age. It was on account of this that the charge of defaming 
the gods was brought against him, doubtless by the political 
opponents of Pericles. Anaxagoras wrote a work " Concern- 
ing Nature^'' which in the time of Socrates was widely circu- 
lated. 

2. His Relation to his Predecessors. — The sj^stem of 
Anaxagoras rests wholly upon the presuppositions of his 
predecessors, and is simply another attempt at the solution 
of the same problem. Like Empedocles and the Atomists, 
Anaxagoras denied becoming, in the stricter sense. "The 
Greeks" — so runs one of his sayings — "maintain the reality 
of becoming and departing erroneously ; for nothing can ever 
be said to become or depart, but each thing arises through 
the combination and perishes through the disintegration of 
pre-existent things ; hence it is more correct to call becoming 
combination, and departing separation." From this view, 
that every thing arises through the mingling of different ele- 
ments, and perishes through the separation of these elements, 
Anaxagoras, like his predecessors, was obhged to separate 
matter from the moving power. But it is just here that 
Anaxagoras adopts that line of thought which is peculiar to 
himself. It was evident that hitherto the moving power had 
been unsatisfactorify defined. The mythical powers love and 
hate, and the unconscious necessity of the purety mechanical 
comprehension of nature explained nothing, least of all the 
existence of design in the movements of nature. The con- 
ception of an activity which could thus work designedly, must, 
therefore, be brought into the conception of the moving power, 
and this Anaxagoras accomplished by setting up the idea of 
a world-forming intelligence (voO?) , absolute^ separated from 
all matter and working with design. 

3. The Principle of the vov?. — Anaxagoras described 
this intelligence as spontaneously active, unmingled with any 

3 



50 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

thing, the ground of movement, but itself unmoved, every 
where active, and the most refined and pure of all things. 
Although these predicates rest partl}^ upon a physical analogy, 
and do not exhibit purely the conception of immateriality, j^et 
on the other hand the attributes of thought and of conscious 
action from design, which he ascribes to the vov^, admit no 
doubt to remain of the decided idealistic character of the 
Anaxagorean principle. Nevertheless, Anaxagoras went no 
farther than to enunciate his fundamental thought without 
attempting its complete application. The explanation of this 
is obvious from the reasons which first led him to adopt his 
principle. It was only the need of an original cause of 
motion, to which also might be attributed the capacity to 
work designedl}', which had led him to the idea of an imma- 
terial principle. His vov?, therefore, is primarily nothing but 
a mover of matter, and in this function nearly all its activity 
is expended. Hence the universal complaint of the ancients, 
especially of Plato and Aristotle, respecting the mechanical 
character of his doctrine. In Plato's Phcedo Socrates relates 
that, in the hope of being directed bej^ond a simple occasion- 
ing, or mediate cause to a final cause, he had tm-ned to the 
book of Anaxagoras, but had found there only a mechanical 
instead of a trul}' teleological explanation of being. Aris- 
totle also finds fault with Anaxagoras for admitting mind to 
be the ultimate ground of things, and 3^et resorting to it for 
the explanation of phenomena only as to a Deus ex macliina^ 
I.e., only when he cannot show that they are the necessary 
results of natural causes. Anaxagoras, therefore, rather pos- 
tulated than proved mind to be an energ}" above nature, and 
the truth and actuality of material being. 

By the side of the j/oCs, according to Anaxagoras, and 
equally original with it, stands the mass of the primitive con- 
stituents of things. "All things were together, infinite in 
iiiiinb(>r and iiifinitosimal in size; then came the vov<i and set 
them in order." These primitive constituents are not general 
elements, like tliose of Empedocles, fire, air, water, earth 



ANAXAGOEAS. 51 

(which, accordmg to Anaxagoras, are composite and not 
simple materials) ; but they are the similar and infinitely 
numerous materials of which individual things are composed 
(stone, gold, bone, etc., and hence by later writers called 
o/Aoto/xepetat, i.e., parts which are similar to the wholes which 
they compose) ; they are the infinitely minute and simple 
" germs of all things," which exist prior to things themselves, 
though in a thoroughly chaotic intermixture. The vov<5 sets 
this in itself inert mass in a vortical, eternalty perduring 
movement. Through this movement the homogeneous par- 
ticles are difierentiated from the general mass and aggregated 
together, not, however, to the exclusion of all dissimilar ele- 
ments. "In every thing there is something of all;" each 
thing consists primarily of the homogeneous, but it contains 
also together with these something of all the remaining primi- 
tive elements of the universe. The matter-moving voO? is 
especially conspicuous in organization ; it is immanent in all 
living beings (plants, animals, men), in different degrees of 
quantity and power, as their vital principle or soul. The 
vovs, therefore, arranges all things, — each in accordance with 
its peculiar natiu'e, — into a universe which comprehends with- 
in itself the most diverse forms of existence, and also mani- 
fests itself in this universe as the vitality of individual organ- 
isms. 

4. Anaxagoras as the close of the pre-Socratic Real- 
ism. — With the Anaxagorean principle of the vov<s, i.e., with 
the acquisition of an immaterial principle, closes the realistic 
period of the old Grecian Philosophy. Anaxagoras combined 
together the principles of all his predecessors. The infinite 
matter of the Hj^licists is represented in his chaotic original 
minghng of things ; the Eleatic pure being appears in the 
idea of the vovs; the Heraclitic power of becoming and the 
Empedoclean moving energies are both seen in the creating 
and arranging power of the eternal mind, while the Democritic 
atoms come to view in the homoiomeria. Anaxagoras is the 
conclusion of the old and the beginning of a new course of 



52 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

development, — the latter through the enunciation of his ideal 
principle, and the former through the defective and complete!}' 
physical manner in which this principle was yet again applied. 



SECTION XI. 

THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 

1. Relation of the Sophistic Philosophy to the ear- 
lier Philosophies. — The preceding philosophers had tacitl}^ 
assumed that subjective consciousness is dependent upon 
objective reality, that the objective world is the source of all 
our knowledge. But with the Sophists a new principle ap- 
peared, that, namely, of subjectivity, — the thought that things 
are onl}' as they a2:>pear to the individual Ego, and that there- 
fore universally valid truth has no existence. This standpoint 
was, however, the direct result of the preceding philosoph}'. 
The Hera clitic doctrine of the flux of all things, and Zeno's 
dialectic against the phenomenal world furnished weapons 
enough for a sceptical attack upon all fixed and objectiA'e 
truth ; and even in the Anaxagorean doctrine of the vov?, 
thought was virtually declared to be a higher principle than 
objeetivit3\ On this newly opened field the Sophists now 
bustled about, enjoying with childish delight the exercise of 
this new power of subjectivit}^ and destroying b}^ means of a 
subjective dialectic all that had previousl}- been objectively 
established. The subject recognized himself as superior to 
the objective world, — espcciall}^ as higher than the laws of 
the state, customs, religious traditions, and popular creeds. 
He sought to apph' his own laws to the objective world ; and 
instead of seeing in the given objectivity the historical real- 
ization of reason, he recognized in it onl}' a dead, unspiritual 
matter upon which his arljitrary will might be exercised. 



THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 53 

The Sophistic philosophy should be characterized as the 
clearing up reflection. It is, therefore, no philosophical S3's- 
tem, for its docti'ines and affirmations exhibit often so popular 
and even trivial a character that for their own sake they 
would merit no place at all in the historj' of philosoph}'. It 
is also no iDhilosophical school in the ordinary sense of the 
term, — for Plato cites a vast number of persons under the 
common name of " Sophists," — but it is a widely spread in- 
tellectual movement of the age, which had struck its roots 
into the whole moral, political, and religious character of the 
Hellenic life of that time, and which may be called the Greek 
clearing-up period. Kf;^^ 

2. Relation OF THE Sophistic Philosophy to the gene-^:^ 
RAL Life of that Age. — The Sophistic philosoph}' is theo- 
reticall}', what the whole political life of Greece during the 
Peloponnesian war was practically. Plato justl}" remarks in 
his Hepublic that the doctrines of the Sophists onl}' gave 
formal expression to the principles which guided the course 
of the great mass of men of that time in their civil and social 
relations, and the hatred with which they were pursued by 
the practical statesmen, cleaii}' indicates the jealous}^ with 
which the latter saw in them then* rivals and the destroyers 
of their policy. If the absoluteness of the empirical subject 
— i.e., the theor}' that the individual Ego can arbitrarily deter- 
mine what is true, right, and good — is in fact the theoretical 
principle. of the Sophistic philosoph}', the unlimited egoism 
which meets us eveiywhere in the public and private life of 
that age is merely its practical application. \ Public life had 
become an arena of passion and selfishness ; those party 
struggles which racked Athens during the Peloponnesian war 
had blunted and stifled the moral feeling; every individual 
accustomed himself to set his own private interest above that 
of the state and the common weal, and to seek in his own 
arbitrary desires and advantage the standard for all his 
actions and the guide of his practical conduct. | The Protago- 
rean dictum, " man i^ the measure of all things," was only too 



54 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

faithfully acted upon, and the influence of the orator in the 
assemblies of the people and the courts, the corruptibility of 
the great masses and their leaders, and the weak points which 
showed to the adroit student of human nature the covetous- 
ness, vanit}^, and factiousness of others around him, offered 
onl}' too many opportunities for the practical application of 
this rule. Custom had lost its weight ; civil ordinances were 
regarded as arbitrary restrictions, the moral feeling as the 
effect of shrewd political training, the faith in the gods 
as a human invention to intimidate free action, while piety 
was looked .upon as a statute of human origin which every 
one is justified in using all his eloquence to change. This 
degradation of a necessity, which is conformable to nature 
and reason and of universal validity, to an accidental human 
ordinance, is the main point in which the Sophistic philosophy 
allied itself with the general consciousness of the more edu- 
cated classes ; and we cannot with certainty determine what 
share science and what share practical life ma}^ have had in 
producing this connection, — whether the Sophistic philosophy 
found only the theoretical formula for the practical life and 
tendencies of the age, or whether the moral corruption was 
rather a consequence of that destructive influence which the 
principles of the Sophists exerted upon the whole course of 
cotemporary thought. 

It would be, however, to mistake the spirit of histor}- to 
condemn the epoch of the Sophists without admitting for it 
a relative justification. These phenomena were in part the 
necessary product of the general historical development of the 
age. Faith in the popular religion was quickly destroj^ed 
simply because it possessed in itself no inner, moral support. 
The gi'ossest vices and acts of baseness could all be justified 
and excused from the examples of mythology. Even Plato 
himself, though otherwise an advocate of a devout faith in 
the traditional religion, accuses the poets of his nation with 
leading the moral feeling itself astray, through the unworthy 
representations which they had given of the gods and the 



THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 55 

hero world. It was moreover unavoidable that advancing 
science should clash with tradition. The physical philoso- 
phers had already long lived in open hostility to the popular 
religion, and the more convincingly they demonstrated by 
analogies and laws that many things which had hitherto been 
regarded as the immediate effect of Divine omnipotence were 
only the results of natural causes, so much the more easily 
would it happen that the educated classes would become per- 
plexed in reference to all their previous convictions. It was 
no wonder then that the transformed consciousness of the 
time permeated all the provinces of art and poesy ; that in 
sculpture, in close analogy to the rhetorical arts of the So- 
phists, the emotive should supplant the elevated style ; that 
Euripides, the sophist among tragedians, should bring the 
whole philosophy of the time and its manner of moral reflec- 
tion upon the stage ; and that, instead of, like the earlier 
poets, bringing forward his actors to represent an idea, he 
should use them only as means of exciting a momentary 
emotion or some other stage effect. 

3. Tendencies of the Sophistic Philosophy. — To give 
a definite classification of the Sophistic philosophy, which 
should be derived from the conception of the general phe- 
nomena of the age, is exceedingly difllcult, since, like the 
French ' ' clearing up " of the last century, it entered into 
every department of knowledge. The Sophists rendered 
general culture universal. Protagoras was known as a 
teacher of vu'tue, Gorgias as a rhetorician and politician, 
Prodicus as a gi^ammarian and teacher of synonyms, Hippias 
as a man of various attainments, who besides astronomical 
and mathematical studies busied himself with a theory of 
mnemonics ; others took for their problem the art of educa- 
tion, and others still the explanation of the old poets ; the 
brothers Euth3xlemus and Dionysidorus gave instruction in 
the bearing of arms and military tactics ; many among them, 
as Gorgias, Prodicus, and Hippias, were intrusted with em- 
bassies: in short, the Sophists, each one according to his 



56 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

individual tendenc}^, took upon themselves every variet}^ of 
calling and entered into every sphere of science ; their method 
is the only thing common to all. Moreover, the relation of 
the Sophists to the educated pubhc, their striving after popu- 
larity, fame, and mone}^, disclose the fact that their studies 
and occupations were for the most part controlled, not by an 
objective scientific interest, but by some external motive. 
With that roving spirit which was an essential peculiarity of 
the later and more characteristic Sophists, travelling from 
city to city, and announcing themselves as thinkers by pro- 
fession, and giving their instructions with prominent refer- 
ence to a good recompense and the favor of the rich private 
classes, it was very natural that they should discourse upon 
the prominent questions of universal interest and of public 
culture, with occasional reference also to the favorite occu- 
pation of this or that rich man with whom they might be 
brought in contact. Hence their peculiar strength lay far 
more in a formal dexterity, in an acuteness of thought and a 
capacity of bringing it readily into exercise, in the art of dis- 
course than in any positive knowledge ; their instruction in 
virtue was either disputatious quibbling or empty bombast, 
and even where the Sophistic philosophy became really poly- 
mathic, the art of speech still remained as the great thing. 
So we find in Xenophon, Hippias boasting that he can speak 
repeatedly upon every subject and say something new each 
time, while we hear it expressly affirmed of others, that they 
did not consider it necessary to have positive knowledge in 
order to discourse satisfactorily upon everj^ thing, and to 
answer every question extemporaneously ; and when many 
Sophists made it a great point to hold a weU-arranged dis- 
course about something of the least possible significance {e.g.^ 
salt) , we see that with them the thing was only a means while 
ttie word was the end, and we ought not to be surprised that 
in this respect the Sophistic philosophy sunk to that empty 
technicality which Plato, in his Phcedrus, on account of its 
want of character, subjects to so rigid a criticism. 



THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 57 

4. The Significance of the Sophistic Philosophy in its 
Relation to the Culture of the Age. — The scientific and 
moral defect of the Sophistic philosophy is self-evident ; and, 
since certain modern writers of history with over-officious zeal 
have painted its dark side in black, and complained loudly 
of its frivolity, immorality, and greediness for pleasure, its 
conceitedness and selfishness, its false show of wisdom and 
disputatiousness, — it needs here no farther elucidation. But 
the point most apt to be overlooked is the merit of the 
Sophists as regards their effect upon the culture of the age. 
To say, as is done, that they had only the negative merit of 
calling out the opposition of Socrates and Plato, is to leave 
the immense influence and the high fame of so many among 
them, as well as the revolution which they effected in the 
thought of a whole nation, an inexplicable phenomenon. It 
were inexplicable that, e.g.^ Socrates should attend the lec- 
tures of Prodicus, and direct to him other students, if he did 
not acknowledge the value of his grammatical acquirements, 
or recognize his services in the promotion of a sound logic. 
Moreover, it cannot be denied that Protagoras also hit upon 
many correct principles of rhetoric, and satisfactorily estab- 
lished certain grammatical categories. It may in general be 
said of the Sophists that they gave the people a gi^eat profu- 
sion of general knowledge ; that they strewed about them a 
vast number of fruitful germs of development; that they 
called out investigations in the theory of knowledge, in logic 
and in language ; that they laid the basis for the methodical 
treatment of many branches of human knowledge, and that 
they partly originated and partly assisted the wonderful in- 
tellectual activity which characterized Athens at that time. 
Theu" greatest merit is their service in the department of lan- 
guage. They may even be said to have created and formed 
Attic prose. They are the first who made style as such a 
separate object of attention and study, and who instituted 
rigid investigations respecting rhythm and the art of rhetorical 
expression. With them Athenian eloquence, which they first 



58 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

incited, begins. Antiplion as well as Isocrates — the latter 
the founder of the most flourishing school of Greek rhetoric — 
are offshoots of the Sophistic philosophy. In all this there 
is ground enough for regarding this whole phenomenon as 
something more than a symptom of decay. 

5. Individual Sophists. — -The first, who is said to have 
been called, in the received sense, Sophist, is Protagoras of 
Abdera, who flourished about 440 b.c. He taught — and was 
the first who demanded payment for his services — in Sicily 
and in Athens, but was driven out of the latter place as a 
reviler of the gods, and his book concerning the gods was 
burnt b}' the herald in the public market-place. It began 
with these words : " I can know nothing concerning the gods, 
whether they exist or not ; for we are prevented from gaining 
such knowedge not onl}- b}^ the obscurit}" of the thing itself, 
but b}^ the brevity of human life." In another writing he 
develops his doctrine of knowledge or nescience. Starting 
from the Heraclitic position that eveiy thing is in a constant 
flow, and applying this preeminently to the thinldng subject, 
he taught that man is the measure of all things, of being that 
it ma}' be, and of not-being that it may not be, i.e., that is 
true for the perceiving subject which he, in the constant move- 
ment of things and of himself, at each moment perceives and 
is sensible of — and that hence he has theoreticallj^ no other 
relation to the external world than sensuous intuition, and 
practically no other than sensuous desire. But, since per- 
ceptions and sensations are as diverse as the subjects them- 
selves which experience them, and are in the highest degree 
variable at different times in the veiy same subject, there fol- 
lows the farther result that nothing has objective validity and 
determination, that contradictory affirmations in reference to 
the same object must be received as alike true, and that error 
and contradiction cannot exist. This principle, that nothing 
exists per se, but that every thing is mere subjective concep- 
tion, opinion, and arbitrariness, was applied, by the Sophists, 
especially to. law and ethics. Nothing, they said, is by 



THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 59 

nature {(fiva-a) good or bad, but merely tln-ough positive statute 
and agreement (vo/xw) . Hence we can decree to be law, and 
recognize as law whatever we please — whatever the interest 
of the moment induces, and we have the skill and power to 
maintain. Protagoras does not seem to haA'e made an}' efforts 
to give these propositions a practical and logical application, 
since, according to the testimom' of the ancients, a personal 
character worth}- of esteem cannot be denied him ; and even 
Plato, in the dialogue which bears his name, goes no farther 
than to object to his complete obscui'ity respecting the natui'e 
of morality, while, in his Gorgias and Fhilebus, he charges 
the later Sophists with affirming the principles of immorality 
and moral baseness. 

Next to Protagoras, the most famous Sophist was Gorgias. 
During the Peloponnesian war (427 b.c), he came from 
Leontini to Athens in order to gain assistance for his native 
cit}' against the encroachments of SjTacuse. After the suc- 
cessful accomplishment of his en-and he still abode for some 
time in Athens, but resided the latter part of his life in Thes- 
sah', where he died about the same time with Socrates. The 
pompous ostentation of his external appearance is often ridi- 
culed b}- Plato, and his discourses display the same character, 
attempting, thi'ough poetical ornament, and florid metaphors, 
and uncommon forms of expression, and a mass of hitherto 
unheard-of figures of speech, to dazzle and delude the mind. 
As a philosopher he adhered to the Eleatics, especially to 
Zeno, and attempted to prove, upon the basis of then- dialetic 
schematism, that, in general, nothing exists, or if something 
does exist, it is incognizable, or if cognizable, it is not com- 
municable. Hence his writing bore characteristicall}' enough 
the title, " Concerning the Non-Existent or Nature" The 
proof of the first proposition — namely, that nothing exists, 
because that which is supposed to exist can, in reality, be 
neither an existent nor a non-existent, since existence pre- 
supposes one of two equally unthinkable alternatives, origi- 
nation and non-origination — rests primarily- upon the as- 



60 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

sumption that all existence is spatial (local and corporeal) , 
and is therefore the ultimate self-contradictory result, the 
self-destruction of the preceding ph3^sical philosophy. 

The later Sophists with reckless daring carried their con- 
clusions far bej^ond Gorgias and Protagoras. They were for 
the most part free thinkers, who pulled to the ground the 
national religion, laws, and customs. Among these should 
be named, prominently, the tyrant Critias, Polas, and Thrasy- 
machus. The two latter openly taught the right of the 
stronger as the law of nature, the unbridled satisfaction of 
desire as the natural right of the stronger, and the institution 
of restraining laws as a craft}^ invention of the weaker ; and 
Critias, the most talented but the most abandoned of the 
thirty t3Tants, wrote a poem, in which he represented the 
faith in the gods as an invention of craft}' statesmen. Hippias 
of Elis, a man of great knowledge, bore an honorable char- 
acter, although he did not fall behind the rest in bombast and 
boasting ; but before all was Prodicus, in reference to whom 
it became a proverb to say, " wiser than Prodicus," and 
of whom Plato himself and even Aristophanes never spoke 
without veneration. Especially famous among the ancients 
were his parenetical (hortatory) lectures concerning the choice 
of a mode of life (Hercules at the parting of the ways, 
adopted b}^ Socrates in Xenophon's Memorabilia, II. 1), con- 
cerning external good and its use, concerning life and death, 
etc., discourses in which he manifests a refined moral feeling, 
and acute observation of life, although through the want of a 
higher ethical and scientific principle, he must be placed below 
Socrates, whose forerunner he has been called. The later 
generations of Sophists, as tbey are shown in the Eutliydemus 
of Plato, sink to a common level of buffoonery and disgrace- 
ful strife for gain, and comprise their whole dialectic art in 
certain formulae for constructing sophistical arguments. 

6. Transition to Socrates and Character of the fol- 
lowing Period. — That which is true in the Sophistic phi- 
losophy is the truth of subjectivity, of self-consciousness, i.e.^ 



THE SOPHISTIC PHILOSOPHY. 61 

the demand that every thing which I am to admit must be 
shown as rational before my own consciousness ; that which 
is false in it is its apprehension of this subjectivity as mere 
finite, empirical, egoistic subjectivity, i.e.,. the demand that 
my accidental will and opinion should determine what is 
rational ; its truth is that it established the principle of free- 
dom, of subjective conviction ; its untruth is that it made the 
accidental will and opinion of the individual supreme. To 
carry out now the principle of freedom and self-consciousness 
to its truth, to gain a true world of objective thought with 
a real and distinct content, by the same means of reflection 
which the Sophists had only used to destroy it, to establish 
objective will, rational thought, the absolute or ideal in the 
place of empirical subjectivitj^, was the problem which Socrates 
took up and solved. To substitute for empirical subjectivity 
absolute or ideal subjectivity as the first principle, is to affirm 
that the true measure of all things is not my {i.e., the indi- 
vidual person's) opinion, fancy, and will ; that what is true, 
right, and good, does not depend upon my caprice and arbi- 
trary determination, or upon that of any other empirical sub- 
ject ; but that although it is 7ny thinking, it is yet my thinking, 
the rational within me, which has to decide upon all these 
points. But my thought, my reason, is not something spe- 
cially belonging to me, but something common to every 
rational being, something universal, and in so far as I am a 
rational and thinking being, is my subjectivity a universal 
one. But every thinking individual has the consciousness 
that what he holds as right, as duty, as good or evil, does 
not appear as such to him alone but to every rational being, 
and that consequently his thought has the character of univer- 
sality, of universal validity, in a word — of objectivity. This 
then J^n opposition to the Sophistic philosophy is the stand- 
point of Socrates, and therefore with him the philosophy of 
objective thought begins. What Socrates could do in oppo- 
sition to the Sophists was to attain by reflection the ver}^ same 
results which had previousl}^ rested upon mere unreflecting 



62 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

faith or obedience, and to show that the philosopher guided 
b}^ his free consciousness and his own convictions, would learn 
to form the same judgments and take the same course as that 
to which life and custom had akeady and unconsciously in- 
duced the ordinary man. The position, that while the indi- 
vidual is the measure of all things, he is so only by vui:ue 
of his universalit}', his capacity for thought, his reason, is the 
fundamental thought of the Socratic philosophy, which is, by 
virtue of this thought, the positive complement of the So- 
phistic principle. 

With Socrates begins the second period of Greek philoso- 
ph}' . This period contains three philosophical S}' stems, whose 
authors, standing to each other in the personal relation of 
teacher and pupil, represent three successive generations, — 
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle. 



SECTION XII. 

SOCRATES. 

1. His Personal Character. — The new philosophical 
principle which Socrates introduced is to be found in his per- 
sonal character. His philosoph}^ is his mode of action as an 
individual ; his life and doctrine cannot be separated. His 
biography, therefore, forms the only complete representation 
of his pliilosoph}^ ; and what the narrative of Xenophon pre- 
sents us as the definite doctrine of Socrates, is consequently 
nothing but an abstract of his inward character, as it found 
expression from time to time in his conversation. Plato yet 
more regarded his master as such an archetypal personaUt}^, 
and a luminous exhibition of the historical Socrates is the 
special object of his later and maturer dialogues, and of these 
again, the Symposium is a most brilliant apotheosis of the 



SOCBATES. 63 

Eros incarnated in the person of Socrates, of the philosophi- 
cal impulse ti-ansformed into character. 

Socrates was born in the year 469 B.C., the son of Sophro- 
niscus, a sculptor, and Phaenarete, a midwife. In his j-outh 
he was trained by his father to follow his own profession, and 
in this he is said not to have been without skill. Three 
draped figui'es of the Graces, called the work of Socrates, 
were seen by Pausanias, upon the Akropolis. Little farther 
is known of his education. He may have profited by the 
instruction of Prodicus and the musician, Damon, but he 
stood in no personal connection with the philosophers proper, 
who flouiished before, or cotemporaneousl}' with him. He 
became what he was by himself alone, and just for this reason 
does he form an era in ancient philosophy. Though the 
ancients call him a scholar of Anaxagoras, or of the natural 
philosopher, Archelaus, the first is demonstrably false, and 
the second, to sa}' the least, is altogether improbable. He 
never sought other means of culture than those afforded b}- 
his native city. With the exception of one journey to a 
public festival, and the militar}' campaigns which led him as 
far as Potidsea, Delion, and Amphipolis, he never left Athens. 

The period when Socrates first began to devote himself to 
the education of 3'outh, can be determined onty approximately 
from the time of the fii'st representation of the Clouds of 
Aristophanes, which was in the jxar 423. The date of the 
Delphic oracle, which pronounced him the wisest of men, is 
not known. But in the traditions of his followers, he is 
almost uniforml}' represented as an old, or as a gray-headed 
man. His mode of instruction, wholly different from the 
pedantry and boastful ostentation of the Sophists, was alto- 
gether unconsti'ained, conversational, popular, starting from 
objects lying nearest at hand and most insignificant, and 
deri\'ing the necessaiy illustrations and proofs from the most 
common matters of every-day life ; in fact, he was reproached 
by his cotemporaries for speaking ever only of drudges, 
smiths, cobblers, and tanners. So we find him at the market, 



64 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

in the gj'mnasia, in the workshops, busy earlj^ and late, tally- 
ing with 3'outh, with 3^oung men, and with old men, on the 
proper aim and business of life, convincing them of their 
ignorance, and awakening in them the slumbering desires 
after knowledge. In every human effort, whether dh-ected 
to the interests of the commonwealth, or to the private indi- 
vidual and the gains of trade, to science or to art, this master 
of helps to spiritual births could find fit points of contact for 
the awakening of a true self-knowledge, and a moral and 
religious consciousness. However often his attempts failed, 
or were rejected with bitter scorn, or requited with hatred and 
unthankfulness, jet, led on by the clear conviction that a real 
improvement in the condition of the state could come only 
from a proper education of its 3'outh, he remained to the last 
true to his chosen vocation. Purely Greek in these relations 
to the rising generation, he designated himself, by preference, 
as the most ardent lover ; Greek too in this, that with him, in 
comparison with these free relations of friendship, his own 
domestic life fell quite into the background. He nowhere 
shows much regard for his wife and children ; the notorious, 
though altogether too much exaggerated ill-nature of Xan- 
tippe, leads us to suspect, however, that his domestic rela- 
tions were not the most happy. 

As a man, as a practical sage, Socrates is pictured in the 
brightest colors by all narrators. "He was," sa^^s Xeno- 
phon, " so pious, that he did nothing without the advice of 
the gods ; so just, that he never injured any one even in the 
least ; so completely master of himself, that he never chose 
the agreeable instead of the good ; so discerning, that he 
never failed in distinguishing the better from the worse ; " 
in short, he was "just the best and happiest man possible." 
(Xen. Mem. I. 1, 11; IV. 8, 11.) Still that which lends 
to his person such a peculiar charm, is the happy blending 
and harmonious connection of all its characteristic traits, the 
perfection of a universal and thoroughly original nature. In 
all this universality of his genius, in this force of character, 



SOCEATES. Q^ 

by which he combined the most contradictory and incongruous 
elements into a harmonious whole, in this lofty elevation 
above every human weakness, — in a word, as a perfect 
model, he is most strikingly depicted in the brilhant eulogy 
of Alcibiades, in the Symposium of Plato. In the scantier 
representation of Xenophon, also, we find ever3'where a 
classic form, a man possessed of the finest social culture, full 
of Athenian politeness, infinitely removed from every thing 
like gloomy asceticism, a man as valiant upon the field of 
battle as in the festive hall, conducting himself with the most 
unconstrained freedom, and yet with entire sobriet}^ and self- 
control, a perfect picture of the happiest Athenian time, with- 
out the acerbity, the one-sidedness, and contracted reserve 
of the later moralists, an ideal representation of the genuinely 
human virtues. A very characteristic peculiarity is the 
" demonism" which he professed. He believed that an inner 
divine voice was constantly forewarning him of the fortunes 
and results of human actions, and guiding and directing his 
practical conduct. It was the fine, profound, presaging tact 
and instinct of a pure soul, which looked clearly into life and 
perceived involuntarily what was right and judicious even in 
the most peculiar emergencies, which expressed itself in these 
admonitions ; and nothing could be more perverse than the 
attempts of his accusers to construe this ' ' demonism " as a 
denial of the popular gods, and an attempt to introduce new 
deities. It was indeed true that with Socrates this oracle 
of inward foreboding supplanted the traditional methods of 
divination and augury ; it was an advance toward an inward 
self-direction which was altogether foreign to the older G-reek 
civilization. This advance was, however, involuntary. Soc- 
rates himself retained the ancient form of behef in a tran- 
scendent revelation ; he never opposed the prevalent popular 
conceptions, but was for the most part in complete accord 
with the popular religion, although, indeed, this latter as- 
sumed with him the philosophical form of a faith in the 
existence, in the universe, of a supreme, all-directing intelli- 
gence. 



66 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

2. Socrates and Aristophanes. — Socrates seems early 
to have attained universal celebrity through the peculiarities 
attaching to his person and character. Nature had furnished 
him with a remarkable exterior. His crooked, turned-up 
nose, his projecting eye, his bald pate, his corpulent bod}^, 
gave his form a striking similarity to the Silenic, a compari- 
son which is carried out in Xenophon's Feast, in sprightly 
jest, and in Plato's Symposium, with as much ingenuity as 
profoundness. To this was added his miserable dress, his 
going barefoot, his posture, his habit of standing still and 
rolling his ej^es. After all this, one will hardly be surprised 
that the Athenian comedy took advantage of such a remark- 
able character. But there was another and peculiar motive 
which influenced Aristophanes. He was a most ardent ad- 
mirer of the good old times, an enthusiastic eulogist of the 
manners and the constitution, under which the fathers had 
been reared. As it was his great object to awaken anew in 
his people and to stimulate a longing after those good old 
times, his passionate hatred broke out against all modern 
eflforts in politics, art, and philosophy, of that increasing 
sham- wisdom, which went hand in hand with a degenerating 
democracy. Hence comes his bitter railing at Cleon, the 
Demagogue (in the Knights), at Euripides, the sentimental 
pla}^- writer (in the Frogs) and at Socrates, the Sophist (in 
the Clouds). The latter, as the representative of a subtle, 
destructive philosophy, must have appeared to him just as 
corrupt and pernicious, as the party of progi'ess in politics, 
who trampled without conscience upon every thing which had 
come down from the past. It is, therefore, the main object 
of the Clouds to expose Socrates to public contempt, as the 
representative of the Sophistic philosoph}^, a mere semblance 
of wisdom, at once vain, profitless, corrupting in its influence 
upon the 3'outh, and undermining all true discipline and mo- 
raUty. Seen in this light, and from a moral standpoint, the 
motives of Aristophanes may find some excuse, but they can- 
not be justified ; and his representation of Socrates, into 



SOCEATES. 67 

whose character all the characteristic features of the Sophistic 
philosophy are interwoven, even the most contemptible and 
hateful, 3'et so that the most unmistakable likeness is still 
apparent, cannot be admitted on the ground that Socrates 
did really have the greatest formal resemblance to the So- 
phists. The Clouds can only be designated as a culpable 
misunderstanding, and as an act of gross injustice brought 
about by blinded passion ; and Hegel, when he attempts to 
defend the conduct of Aristophanes, forgets, that, while the 
comic writer ma}^ caricature, he must do it without having 
recourse to public calumniation. In fact all the political and 
social tendencies of Aristophanes rest on a gi'oss misunder- 
standing of historical development. The good old times, as 
he fancies them, are a fiction. It lies just as little in the 
realm of possibilitj^, that a morality without reflection, and a 
homely ingenuousness, such as mark a nation's childhood, 
should be forced upon a time in which reflection has utterlj^ 
eaten out all inunediateness and unconscious moral sim- 
plicity, as that a grown up man should become a child again 
in the natural way. Aristophanes himself attests the impos- 
sibiht}^ of such a return, when in a fit of humor, with C3mic 
railler}^, he gives up all divine and human authority to ridi- 
cule, and thereby, however commendable may have been the 
patriotic motive prompting him to this comic extravagance, 
demonstrates, that he himself no longer stands upon the basis 
of the old morality, that he too is the son of his time. 

3. The Coxdesination op Socrates. — To this same con- 
founding of his eflbrts with those of the Sophists, and the 
same tendency to restore by violent means the old discipline 
and morality, Socrates, twenty-four years later, fell a victun. 
After he had lived and labored at Athens for many years in 
his usual manner, after the storms of the Peloponnesian war 
and the despotism of the thirt}^ t3Tants had passed awaj^, and 
democracy had been restored, *in his seventieth year he was 
brought to trial and accused of denjing the gods of the state, 
of introducing new deities, and also of corrupting the 3'outh. 



68 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

His accusers were Melitus, a 3^oung poet, Anytus, a dema- 
gogue, and L3'con, an orator, men in every respect insignifi- 
cant, and acting, as it seems, without motives of personal 
enmity. The trial resulted in his condemnation. After a 
fortunate accident had enabled him to spend thirty days more 
with his disciples in his confinement, scorning to escape from 
his prison, he drank the poisoned cup in the year 399 B.C. 

The first motive to his accusation, as ah^eady remarked, 
was his identification with the Sophists, the actual belief that 
his doctrines and activity were marked with the same char- 
acter of hostility to the interests of the state, as those of the 
Sophists, which had akeady occasioned so much mischief. 
The three points in the accusation, though evidently resting 
on a misunderstanding, alike indicate this ; they are precisely 
those by which Aristophanes had sought to characterize the 
Sophist in the person of Socrates. This " corruption of the 
3'outh," this bringing in of new customs, and a new mode of 
culture and education generally, was precisely the charge 
which was brought against the Sophists ; moreover, in Plato's 
3Ieno, An3'tus, one of the three accusers, is introduced as the 
bitter enem^' of the Sophists and of their manner of instruc- 
tion. So too in respect to the denial of the national gods : be- 
fore this, Protagoras, accused of denying the gods, had been 
obliged to flee from Athens. Even five years after the death 
of Socrates, Xenophon, who was not present at the trial, felt 
himself called upon to write his Memorabilia in defence of his 
teacher, so wide-spread and deep-rooted was the prejudice 
against him. 

Beside this there was also a second, probabl}^ a more de- 
cisive reason, — a political one. Socrates was no aristocrat, 
bat his character was too firm to permit him to accommodate 
liimsclf to the caprices of the sovereign mob, and he was too 
deeply convinced of the necessity of a lawful and intelhgent 
management of state afi'airs to be on friendly terms with the 
Athenian democracy, as it was then constituted. Moreover 
his whole mode of life must have appeared to them to be that 



SOCEATES. 69 

of a bad citizen. He had never concerned himself in the 
affairs of the state, had never but once sustained an official 
character, and then, as chief of the Prytanes, had disagreed 
with the will of the people and the rulers. (Plat. ApoL Sect. 
32 ; Xen. Mem. I. 1, 18.) In his seventieth year, he mounted 
the orator's stand for the first time in his life, on the occasion 
of his own accusation. We must also take into account the 
fact that he would have allowed only men of wisdom and 
penetration to possess power in the state, and found fault 
with the Athenian democracy upon every occasion, especially 
with the democratic institution of choice by lot ; that he de- 
cidedly preferred the Spartan state to the Athenian ; and that 
he excited the distrust of the democrats by his confidential 
relations with the former leaders of the oligarchic party. 
(Xen. Mem. I. 2, 9, sq.) Among others who were of the 
oligarchic interest, and friendly to the Spartans, Critias in 
particular, one of the thirty tyrants, had been his pupil, as 
also Alcibiades — two men who had been the cause of much 
evil to the Athenian people. If now we accept the uniform 
tradition, that two of his accusers were men of fair standing 
in the democratic party, and farther, that his judges were men 
who had fled before the thirty tyrants, and later had over- 
thrown the power of the oligarchy, we find it much more easy 
to understand how the^^ in the case before them, should have 
supposed they were acting wholl}^ in the interest of the demo- 
cratic party, when they pronounced condemnation upon the 
accused, especially as enough to all appearance could be 
brought against him. The hurried trial presents nothing 
ver}^ remarkable, in a generation which had grown up during 
the Peloponnesian war, and in a people that adopted and 
repented of their passionate resolves with equal haste. Yea, 
more, if we consider that Socrates scorned to have recourse 
to the usual means and forms adopted by those accused of 
capital crime, and to gain the sympathy of the people by 
lamentations, or their favor by flattery, that he in proud con- 
sciousness of his innocence defied his judges, it becomes 



70 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

rather a matter of wonder, that his condemnation was earned 
by a majorit}^ of only three to six votes. And even now he 
might have escaped the sentence to death, had he been wiUing 
to bow to the will of the sovereign people for the sake of a 
commutation of his punishment. But as he scorned to set a 
value upon himself, by proposing another punishment, a fine, 
for example, instead of the one moved b}' his accuser, because 
this would be the same as to acknowledge himself guilty, his 
disdain could not fail to exasperate the easily excited Athe- 
nians, and no farther explanation is needed to show why 
eighty of his judges who had before voted for his acquittal, 
now voted for his death. Such was the most lamentable re- 
sult — a result, afterwards most deeply regretted b3^the Athe- 
nians themselves — of an accusation, which at the outset was 
probablj' only intended to humble the aristocratic philosopher, 
and to force him to an acknowledgment of the power and the 
majest}" of the people. 

Hegel's view of the fate of Socrates, that it was the result 
of the colhsion of equalty just powers — the Traged}'' of Athens 
as he calls it — and that guilt and innocence were shared alike 
on both sides, cannot be maintained on historical grounds, 
since Socrates can neither be regarded exclusively as the 
representative of the modern spirit, the principle of freedom, 
subjectivity, internalit}^ ; nor his judges, as the representa- 
tives of the old Athenian unreflecting morality. The first is 
impossible, since Socrates, even though his principle was at 
variance with the old Greek moralit}^ rested nevertheless so 
fiir on the basis of tradition, that the accusations brought 
against him in this respect were false and groundless ; and 
the last is equally impossible, since at that time, after the 
close of the Peloponnesian war, the old morality and piety 
had long been wanting to the mass of the people, and given 
place to the modern culture ; and the whole process against 
Socrates must ])c regarded rather as an attempt to restore by 
violence, in connection with the old constitution, the old de- 
funct morality and modes of thought. The fault is not there- 



SOCRATES. 71 

fore the same on both sides, and it must he held, that Socra- 
tes fell a victim to a misunderstanding, and to an unjustifiable 
reaction of public sentiment. 

4. The Sources of the Socratic Philosophy. — Well 
known is the old controversy, whether the picture of Socrates 
drawn by Xenophon or that drawn by Plato, is the more com- 
plete and true to history, and which of the two is to be consid- 
ered the more reliable source for obtaining a knowledge of his 
philosophy. This question is being decided more and more 
in favor of Xenophon. Great pains have been taken in 
former as in later times, to bring Xenophon's Memorabilia 
into disrepute, as a shallow and insufficient source, because 
their plain, and any thing but speculative contents, seemed 
to furnish no satisfactory ground for such a revolution in the 
world of mind as is attributed to Socrates, or for the splendor 
which invests his name in histor}^, or for the character which 
Plato assigns him ; because again the Memorabilia of Xeno- 
phon have especially an apologetic aim, and their defence 
does not relate so much to the philosopher as to the man ; 
and fina%, because they have been supposed to have the 
appearance of canying the philosophical over into the uu- 
philosophical style of the common understanding. A dis- 
tinction has therefore been made between an exoteric and an 
esoteric Socrates, obtaining the first from Xenophon, the 
latter from Plato. But the preference of Plato to Xenophon 
has in the first place no historical justification, since Xeno- 
phon appears as a proper historian and claims historical 
credibility, while Plato on the other hand never professes to 
be an historical narrator, save in a few passages, and by no 
means intends to have all the rest which he puts in the mouth 
of Socrates understood as his authentic expressions and dis- 
com-se. There is, therefore, no historical reason for prefer- 
ring the representation of Socrates which is given by Plato. 
In the second place, the under-valuation of Xenophon rests, 
for the most part, on the false notion, that Socrates had a 
proper philosophy, i.e., a speculative system, and on an un- 



72 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

historical mistaking of the hmits by which the philosophical 
character of Socrates was conditioned and restricted. There 
was no proper Socratic doctrine, but a Socratic life ; and, 
just on this ground, are the different philosophical tendencies 
of his disciples to be explained. 

5. General Character of the Socratic Philosophy. — 
The philosophizing of Socrates was limited and defined by his 
opposition, partly to the preceding, and partly to the Sophis- 
tic philosophy. 

Philosoph}' before the time of Socrates had been essentially 
an investigation of nature. But in Socrates, the human mind, 
for the first time, turned itself in upon itself, upon its own 
being, and that too in the most immediate manner, b}^ con- 
ceiving itself as active, moral spirit. The positive philoso- 
phizing of Socrates is exclusively of an ethical character, 
exclusive^ an inquiry into the nature of vu-tue, so exclu- 
sively, and so one-sidedl}', that, as is wont to be the case 
upon the appearance of a new principle, it even expressed a 
contempt for the strivings of the entire previous period, with 
its natural philosoph}^, and its mathematics. Subordinating 
ever}' thing to the standpoint of direct moral advancement, 
Socrates was so far from finding any object in "irrational" 
nature worthy of stud}^ that he rather, in a kind of general 
teleological manner, conceived it simply in the light of an 
external means for the attainment of external ends ; he would 
not even go out to walk, as he saj^s in the PJimdrus of Plato, 
since one can learn nothing from trees and districts of coun- 
tr3\ Self-knowledge, the Delphic yvibOi aavrov appeared to 
him the onl}' object wortlw of man, the starting-point of all 
philosophy. Knowledge of every other kind, he pronounced 
so insignificant and worthless, that he was wont to boast of 
his ignorance, and to declare that he excelled other men in 
wisdom onl}' in this, that he was conscious of his own igno- 
rance. (Plat. Ap. S. 21, 23.) 

The other side of the Socratic philosophizing, is its oppo- 
sition to the philosoph}^ of the time. His object, as is well 



SOCEATES. 73 

understood, could have been only this, to place himself upon 
the same position as that occupied by the philosophy of the 
Sophists, and overcome it on its own ground, and by its own 
principles. That Socrates shared the general position of the 
Sophists has been remarked above. Man}^ of his assertions, 
particularly these propositions, that no man knowingly does 
wrong, and that if a man were knowingly to lie, or to do 
some other wrong act, still he would be better than he who 
should do the same unconsciously, at first sight bear a purely 
Sophistic stamp. The great fundamental thought of the So- 
phistic philosophy- , that every moral act must be a conscious 
act, was also his. But while the Sophists made it their ob- 
ject, through subjective reflection to confuse and to break up 
all stable convictions, to make all objective standards impos- 
sible, Socrates had recognized thinking as the activity of the 
universal, and free objective thought as the measure of all 
things ; and, therefore, instead of referring moral duties, and 
all moral action to the fancy and caprice of the individual, 
had rather reduced all morality to accurate knowledge, to the 
essence of spirit. It was this idea of knowledge that led him 
to seek, by the jorocess of thought, to gain an intelligible 
objective ground, something real, abiding, absolute, inde- 
pendent of the arbitrary volitions of the subject, and to hold 
fast to unconditioned moral laws. Hegel expresses the same 
opinion, when he sa^'S that Socrates put morality from ethical 
grounds, in the place of the morality of custom and habit. 
Hegel distinguishes morality, as conscious right conduct, 
resting on reflection and moral principles, from the morality" 
of unsophisticated, half-unconscious virtue, which rests on 
compliance with prevailing custom. The logical presupposi- 
tion of this ethical striving of Socrates, was the establishment 
of conceptions, the method of their formation. To search 
out the " what" of every thing says Xenophon {Mem. IV. 6, 
1) was the uninterrupted labor of Socrates ; and Aristotle 
says expressly that a twofold merit must be ascribed to him. 
Adz., the method of induction and strictly logical definitions, 
4 . 



74 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

— the two elements which constitute the basis of science. 
How these two elements stand connected with the principle 
of Socrates we shall at once see. 

6. The Socratic Method. — We must not regard the So- 
cratic method in the light of modern conceptions of method, 
i.e., as something of which in its abstract clearness he was 
distinctly conscious ; but it rather owed its origin immediately 
to the manner of his philosophizing, which was not designed 
for the communication of a sj^stem but for the education of 
the subject in philosophical thinking and life. It is only the 
subjective technique of his educational procedure, the pecu- 
liar manner of his actual philosophical life. 

The Socratic method has two sides, a negative and a pos- 
itive. The negative side is the well-known Socratic irony. 
The philosopher takes the attitude of ignorance, and would 
apparently let himself be instructed by those with whom he 
converses, but through the questions which he puts, the un- 
expected consequences which he deduces, and the contradic- 
tions in which he involves the opposite party, he soon leads 
them to see that their supposed knowledge is only a source 
of confusion and contradiction. In the embarrassment in 
which they now find themselves placed, and seeing that they 
do not know what they supposed, this supposed knowledge 
completes its own destruction, and the individual who had 
pretended to wisdom learns to distrust his previous opinions 
and firmly held notions. " What we knew, has contradicted 
itself," is the refrain of the most of these conversations. 

The result of this side of the Socratic method was only to 
lead the subject to know that he knew nothing, and a great 
part of the dialogues of Xenophon and Plato go no farther 
than to represent ostensibly this negative result. But there 
is yet anotlier element in his method in which this irony loses 
its negative character. 

The positive side of the Socratic method is the so-called 
oljstetrics or art of intellectual midwifery. Socrates com- 
pares himself with his mother Phsenarete, a midwife, because 



SOCEATES. 75 

his office was rather to help others bring forth thoughts 
than to produce them himself, and because he took upon 
himself to distinguish the birth of an empty thought from one 
rich in content. (Plato TJieatoetus^ p. 149.) Through this 
art of midwifery the philosopher, by his assiduous question- 
ing, by his interrogatory dissection of the notions of him with 
whom he might be conversing, knew how to elicit from him 
a thought of which he had previously been unconscious, and 
how to help him to the birth of a new thought. A chief 
means in this operation was the method of induction^ or the 
reduction of particulars to general conceptions. The phi- 
losopher, thus, starting from some individual, concrete case, 
and seizing hold of the most common notions concerning it, 
and finding illustrations in the most ordinary and trivial 
occurrences, knew how to remove by his comparisons that 
which was individual, and by thus separating the accidental 
and contingent from the essential, could bring to conscious- 
ness a universal truth and a universal characteristic, — in 
other words, could form conceptions. In order, e.^., to find 
the conception of justice or valor, he would start from indi- 
vidual examples of them, and from these deduce the general 
nature or conception of these virtues. From this we see that 
the aim of the Socratic induction was to gain logical defini- 
tions. I define a conception when I develop what it is, its 
essence, its content. I define the conception of justice when 
I determine the common property and logical unity of aU its 
difi'erent modes of manifestation. Socrates sought to go no 
farther than this. "To inquire into the essence of virtue," 
says an Aristotelian writing (Eud. Etli. I. 5), " Socrates re- 
garded as the problem of philosoph}^, and hence, since with 
him all virtue is knowledge, he sought to determine in respect 
of justice or valor what they might really be, z.e., he inves- 
tigated their essence or conception." From this it is very 
easy to see how his method of definitions or of forming con- 
ceptions was connected with his practical strivings. He went 
back to the conception of each individual virtue, e.g.^ justice, 



76 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

oiily because he was convinced that the knowledge of this 
conception, the knowledge of it for everj^ individual case, was 
the surest guide for eveiy moral relation. Ever}' moral act, 
he believed, should be a conscious, intelligent act. 

On this account we might characterize the Socratic method 
as the art b}^ which from a certain sum of given homogeneous 
and individual phenomena, their logical unit}", the universal 
principle which lies at then- base, may be inductively. found. 
This method presupposes the recognition of the fact that the 
essence of the objects can be comprehended in thought, that 
the conception of a thing is its true being. Hence we see 
that the Platonic doctrine of ideas is only the objectifjing of 
this method which in Socrates appears to be only a subjective 
dexterity. The Platonic ideas are the universal conceptions 
of Socrates posited as real individual existences. Hence 
Aristotle {Metapli. XIII. 4) most fittingly characterizes the 
relation between the Socratic method and the Platonic doc- 
trine of ideas with the words, " Socrates did not posit uni- 
versal conceptions as separate, individual substances, while 
Plato does this, and names them ideas." 

7. The Socratic Doctrine of Virtue. — The onl}" posi- 
tive doctrinal statement which has been transmitted to us 
from Socrates is, that virtue is knowledge, wisdom, insight ; 
?'.e., virtue is no mere inborn or mechanically acquired power 
or ability, but a virtuous act is one which proceeds from a 
clearl}" conscious perception of those things to which it re- 
lates, that is, of the end, means, and limitations b}^ which 
it is conditioned. Action without perception and judgment 
is contradictory and self-destructive ; action with perception 
and judgment is sure to realize its aim. Good and evil are 
therefore determined by the presence or absence of insight ; 
men act wrongly onl}' because they form en-oneous judgments. 
Hence no one is willingly wicked ; the wicked are what they 
are in direct opposition to their own inclinations. Moreover 
he who does wrong knowiugl}^ is better than he who does so 
unconsciously, because in the latter case, in the absence of 



SOCEATES. 77 

true knowledge, virtue must be altogether wanting, while in 
the former case (if indeed such a case were possible) virtue 
would suffer only temporary- injury. Socrates would not 
admit that any one can know the good and not do it. He 
regarded the good, not, like the Sophists, as an arbitrary law, 
but as that upon which the welfare of individuals as well as 
of the human race unconditionally depends, since vktuous 
action is the only intelKgent action ; hence it seemed to him 
a logical contradiction that mankind, who seek above all 
things then* own advantage, should at the same time know- 
ingly reject it. Virtuous action seemed to him to follow firom 
the cognition of the good as necessarily as a logical conclu- 
sion from its premises. 

The proposition that virtue is knowledge, has for its logical 
consequence the unit}" and identity of all virtues, in so far as 
the intellectual insight which determines the rightuess of an 
act is in all cases one and the same, without reference to the 
particular objects upon which it may be directed ; and for its 
practical consequence the teachableness of virtue, whereb}' it 
becomes something universally human, something which evevy 
one can acquire thi'ough instruction and j)ractice. AVith these 
thi'ee propositions, in which every thing is embraced which 
we can properly term the Socratic philosoph}", Socrates has 
laid the first foundation stone for a scientific treatment of 
ethics, a treatment which must be dated from him. But he 
laid onl}' the foundation, for on the one hand he neither 
attempted a detailed development of his principles, nor the 
establishment of a concrete doctrine of ethics, but only, after 
the ancient manner, referred to the laws of states and the 
unwritten laws of general usage ; and on the other, he not 
seldom availed himself of utilitarian motives to establish 
his ethical propositions, in other words he referred to the 
external advantages and useful consequences of virtue, — a 
method in which the absence of a strict scientific treatment 
is strongly felt. Although in his opinion virtue is obligatory 
from the fact that man as a rational, intelligent being must 



78 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

ill all cases act designcdl}^, that is, with rational insight, if 
he wishes to avoid self- degradation, still he stood complete^ 
on the level of his age in that he conceived virtue to be at 
the same time the way toward the realization of well-being, 
happiness, contentment, power, and honor, as definite aims. 
These he took just as they are given in experience, without 
reducing them to a higher collective aim. He demanded one 
and the same virtue in all spheres of action, yet he allowed 
these spheres themselves to retain that empirical contingency 
which characterizes them in the consciousness and thoughts 
of those who are immersed in the common, practical interests 
of life. In his own character, no doubt, he exhibited that 
elevation above sensuous appetites and affections, that free- 
dom from desire, which brings man nearest to God, a spirit- 
ual peace which could never be disturbed, a free consciousness 
of unimpaired strength, and manifold intellectual capacities, 
as constituting the highest felicity, and thus directly identified 
the conceptions of virtue and happiness. But he expressed 
this not as a universal but as an individual principle. He 
himself retained too much of the old view of things to be 
willing to deny the validity of concrete aims, and sacrifice 
them to his personal ideal of happiness. 



THE PARTIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCEATES. 79 



SECTION XIII. 

THE PAETIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCEATES. 

1. Their relation to the Socratic Philosophy. — Soc- 
rates' death was the means of transforming his hfe into a 
universal or ideal type, which in various directions became 
the inspiring principle of philosophic progress. It is just 
this recognition of Socrates as an ideal type which constitutes 
the common characteristic of the immediately succeeding 
Socratic schools. That man ought to be guided by a uni- 
versal, absolutely true aim is a necessary deduction from the 
Socratic principle that it is a man's duty to regulate and 
unify his action by means of conscious thought. But since 
for the solution of the problem. Wherein does this aim con- 
sist? there existed no completely developed Socratic doctrine, 
but only the tragically ended, many-sided Socratic life, every 
thing would necessarily be reduced to an individual estimate 
of Socrates' personal character, which would of course be 
judged differently by different persons. Socrates had many 
disciples but no school. Of these idealizations or reflections 
of the Socratic character, three have obtained a conspicuous 
place in history, — that of Antisthenes or the Cynic, that of 
Aristippus or the Cyrenaic, and that of Euclid or the Mega- 
rian. These three estimates of Socrates, each of which indeed 
embodied a real element of the Socratic character, agree in 
positing as the true essence of this character disjoined and 
isolated elements, which in the master himself were combined 
in harmonious unity. The}^ are, therefore, each of them one- 
sided and give a false picture of Socrates. For this, how- 
ever, they are not wholly responsible. The fact that Aris- 
tippus was obliged to turn back to Protagoras for a theory 
of cognition, and Euclid to the Eleatics for a metaph3^sic, 
shows clearly the undeveloped, unmethodical, subjective char- 
acter of Socrates' philosophy. The errors and one-sidedness 



80 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

of these philosophers exhibit, in fact, only the defects and 
weaknesses which adhered to the doctrines of their master. 

2. Antisthenes and the Cynics. — As a strictly literal 
adherent of the doctrine of Socrates, and zealously though 
grossl}^, and often with caricature imitating his method, An- 
tisthenes stands nearest his master. In early life a disciple 
of Gorgias, and himself a teacher of the Sophistic philosophy, 
he subsequently became an inseparable attendant of Socrates, 
after whose death he founded a school in the Cynosarges, 
whence his scholars and adherents took the name of Cjaiics, 
though according to others this name was derived from their 
mode of life. The doctrine of Antisthenes is only an abstract 
expression of the Socratic ideal of virtue. Like Socrates he 
considered a virtuous life to be the chief aim of man, to be 
necessary to and alone sufficient for happiness : like Socrates 
also he asserted vktue to be insight or accurate knowledge, 
and therefore to be teachable and one ; but the ideal of wtue 
as he had beheld it in the person of Socrates was realized, 
in his estimation, only in the absence of every desire (in his 
appearance he imitated a beggar with staff and scrip) , and 
hence in the disregarding of all other intellectual interests ; 
virtue with him is only the avoidance of evil, z.e., of those 
desires and lusts which fetter us to wants and enjoyments, — 
and therefore has no need of dialectical demonstrations, but 
only of Socratic vigor ; the wise man, according to him, is 
self-sufficient, independent of every thing, indifferent to mar- 
riage, famil}', societ}^, and politics (a feature not at all charac- 
teristic of antiquit}^) as also to wealth, honor, and enjoyment. 
In this ideal of Antisthenes, which is more negative than posi- 
tive, we miss entirely the genial humanity and the universal 
susceptibility of his master, and still more a cultivation of 
those fruitful dialectic elements which the Socratic j^hiloso- 
phizing contained. "With a more decided contempt for all 
knowledge, and a still greater scorn of all the customs of 
society, the later Cynicism became frequently a repulsive and 
shameful caricature of the Socratic spirit. This was espe- 



THE PABTIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCEATES. 81 

ciallj the case with Diogenes of Sinope, the only one of his 
disciples whom Antisthenes suffered to remain with him. In 
their high estimation of virtue and philosophy these Cynics, 
who have been suitably stjied the Capuchins of the Grecian 
world, preserved a trace of the original Socratic philosophj', 
but they sought virtue "in the shortest way," in a life ac- 
cording to nature as they themselves expressed it, that is, in 
shutting out the outer world, in attaining a complete inde- 
pendence, and absence of eyery need, and in renouncing art 
and science as well as every definite aim. The wise man, 
they said, should be master of all his wants and desires, with- 
out weakness, free from the restraints of civil law and cus- 
tom, — co-equal with the gods. An easy life, said Diogenes, 
is assigned by the gods to that man who limits himself to his 
necessities, and this true philosophy ma}^ be attained by every 
one, through perseverance and the power of self-denial. Phi- 
losophy and philosophical interest there is none in this school 
of beggars. All that is related of Diogenes are anecdotes 
and sarcasms. 

We see here how the ethics of the Cynic school lost itself 
in entirely negative statements, a consequence naturally re- 
sulting from the fact that the original Socratic conception of 
virtue lacked a concrete positive content, and was not sj'ste- 
matically carried out. C^'nicism is the negative side of the 
Socratic doctrine. 

3. Aristippus and the Ctrenaics. — Aristippus of CjTcne, 
numbered till the death of Socrates among his adherents, is 
represented b}^ Aristotle as a Sophist, and with propriety, 
since he received mone}" for his instructions. He appears in 
Xenophon as a man devoted to pleasure. The adroitness 
with which he adapted himself to every circumstance, and 
the knowledge of human nature b}^ which in every condition 
he knew how to provide means to satisfy his desire for good 
living and luxur}-, were notorious among the ancients. He 
kept himself aloof from the cares of government that he might 
not become dependent ; he spent most of his time abroad in 



82 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

order to free himself from ever}^ restraint ; lie made it his rale 
that circumstances should be dependent upon him, while he 
should be independent of them. Though such a man seems 
little worth}^ of the name of a Socratic, 3^et has he two points 
of contact with his master which should not be overlooked. 
Socrates had called virtue and happiness coordinatel}' the 
highest end of man, i.e., he had maintained most strenuously 
the idea of moral action ; but because he stated this in an 
undeveloped and abstract form, he was only able in concrete 
cases to establish the obligation of the moral law in a utili- 
tarian wa}', by appealing to the benefit resulting from the 
practice of virtue. This side of the Socratic i^rinciple Ai'is- 
tippus adopted for his own, affirming that pleasure is the 
ultimate end of life, and the highest good. Moreover, this 
pleasure, as Aristippus regards it, is not happiness as a con- 
dition embracing the whole life, but onl}^ immediate, particu- 
lar sensations of ph3'sical pleasure ; moreover to him all moral 
restrictions and duties are, in comparison with this pleas- 
ure, of no account ; nothing which gives pleasure is wicked, 
shameful, or godless ; what opposes it is mere opinion and 
prejudice (as with the Sophists). But in that Aristippus 
recommends knowledge, self-government, temperance, the 
power of subjugating indiA^dual desires, and general intellec- 
tual culture as means for acquiring and preserving enjoyment, 
he shows that the Socratic spirit was not yet wholly extin- 
guished within him, and that the name of pseudo-Socratic 
which Schleiermacher gives him, hardly belongs to him. 

The remaining philosophers of the CjTenaic school, Theo- 
clorus, Hegesias, Anniceris, can be only briefl}' mentioned. 
The further development of this school consists in the more 
accurate definition of the pleasure to be aimed at, i.e., in 
answers to the questions whether it is a momentar}^ state (a 
momentary sensation) or a permanent condition, and whether 
it is spiritual or physical, positive or negative (i.e., the mere 
absence of pain). Theodoras declared that enjoyment to be 
the highest which the mind receives from its insight, from its 



THE PAETIAL DISCIPLES OF SOCEATES. 83 

capacity for rational, unprejudiced self-direction in all the 
relations of life. Hegesias found a pure life of pleasure unat- 
tainable, and therefore not to be sought after. Prevention 
of pain, and the exertion of every faculty, is, according to 
him, the aim of the sage, the only aim, indeed, which is left 
to man, life being so full of evils. And, lastl}-, Anniceris 
taught, that a complete withdrawal from family and social 
relations is impossible, but that the true aim is rather to draw 
from action as much x^leasure as possible, and to take the 
occasional pain which accompanies our efforts for our friends 
and our country, as a part of the bargain ; i.e., he sought to 
adjust the doctrine of pleasm-e to those requirements and 
relations of life to which it stood in such iiTeconcilable oppo- 
sition. 

4. Euclid and the Megarians. — The union of the dia- 
lectical and the ethical is a common characteristic of all the 
partial Socratic schools ; the difference consists only in this, 
that in one the ethical is made to do service to the dialectical, 
while, in another, the dialectical stands in subjection to the 
ethical. The former is especially true of the Megarian school, 
whose essential peculiarity was stated by the ancients them- 
selves to be a combination of the Socratic and Eleatic prin- 
ciples. The idea of the good is for ethics what the idea of 
being is for physics ; it was, therefore, onl}^ a Socratic trans- 
formation of the Eleatic doctrine when Euclid of Megara 
asserted that only that which exists, which is self-identical 
and one with itself is good (absolutely true) , and that this 
good alone is ; while whatever is opposed to the good, what- 
ever is changeable, manifold, and divisible is merely appar- 
ent. This self-identical good, however, is not sensuous but 
intellectual good, ti'uth, reason ; it is, moreover, for man the 
only good. Later the Megarian Stilpo taught that the only 
^ true aim is rationality, knowledge, and a complete, apathetic 
indifference to every thing which has nothing in common with 
the knowledge of the good. This again was an exaggeration 
of the Socratic tendency to reflection, with the accompanying 



84 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

peace of mind, and is only a more refined, more spiritual 
C3'nicism. What is farther related of Euclid is meagre and 
may here be omitted. The Megarian school was kept up 
under different leaders after his death, but without vital 
power, and without an independent principle of organic de- 
velopment. As hedonism (the philosophical doctrine of the 
Cyrenaics that pleasure is the chief good) led the way to the 
doctrine of Epicurus, and cynicism was the bridge toward 
the Stoic, so the later Megaric eristic formed the transition 
to scepticism. Its sophistries and paralogisms, which were, 
for the most part, its polemic, in the style of Zeno, against 
sensuous conception and experience, were widely known and 
noted among the ancients. 

5. Plato, as the complete Socratic. — The attempts thus 
far to build upon the foundation of the Socratic doctrine, 
started without a vigorous germinating principle, and ended 
fruitlessly. Plato was the only one of his scholars who has 
approached and represented the tuhole Socrates. Starting 
from the Socratic idea of knowledge he brought into one 
focus the scattered elements and rays of truth which could be 
collected from his master or from the philosophers preced- 
ing him, and gave to philosophy a systematic completeness. 
The doctrine that thought is the true being, the only actual, 
had been apprehended by the Megarians only abstractl}^ and 
had been enounced by Socrates himself only as a principle ; 
cognition by means of conceptions remained with him merety 
an undeveloped postulate. His philosophy is not a system, 
but only the first impulse toward a philosophical development 
and method. Plato is the first who has approached a syste- 
matic representation and development of absolutely true con- 
ceptions, of the ideal world. 

I The Platonic system is Socrates objectified, the blending 
and reconciling of preceding philosophy, ii 



PLATO. 85 



SECTION XIV. 

PLATO. 

I. Plato's Life. 1. His Youth. — Plato, the son of 
Ariston, of a noble Attic family, was born in the 3-ear 429 
B.C. It was the jeav of the death of Pericles, the second 
year of the Peloponnesian war, so fatal to Athens. Born in 
the centre of Grecian culture and industr}', and descended 
from an old and noble family, he received a corresponding 
education, although no information in regard to this has been 
transmitted to us, except the insignificant names of his teach- 
ers. That the youth gTowing up under such circumstances 
should choose the seclusion of a philosophic hfe rather than 
a political career may seem strange, since many and favor- 
able opportunities for the latter course laj^ open before him. 
Critias, one of the thirty tjTants, was the cousin of his 
mother, and Charmides, who subsequently, under the oli- 
garchic rule at Athens, met his death at the hands of Thrasy- 
bulus on the same day with Critias, was his uncle. Notwith- 
standing this, he is never known to have appeared a single 
time as a public speaker in the assembly of the people. In 
view of the rising degeneracy and increasing political corrup- 
tion of his native land, he was too proud to court for himself 
the favor of the many-headed Demos ; and more attached to 
Doricism than to the democracy and practice of the Attic 
public life, he chose to make science his chief pursuit, rather 
than as a patriot to struggle in vain against unavoidable dis- 
aster, and become a martjr to his political opinions. He 
regarded the Athenian state as lost, and to hinder its inevi- 
table ruin he would not bring a useless offering. 

2. His Years of Discipline. — A youth of twenty, Plato 
came to Socrates, in whose intercourse he spent eight 3'ears. 
Besides a few doubtful anecdotes, nothing is known of this 
portion of his history. In Xenophon's Memorabilia (III. 6) 



86 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Plato is onl}' once cursoril}' mentioned, but this in a wa}' that 
indicates an intimate relation between the scholar and his 
master. Plato himself in his dialogues has transmitted noth- 
ing concerning his personal relations to Socrates ; only once 
{PhcecL, p. 59) he names himself among the intimate friends 
of Socrates. But the influence which Socrates exerted upon 
him, how he recognized in him the complete representation 
of a wise man, how he found not onl}^ in his doctrine but also 
in his life and action the most fruitful philosophic germs, the 
significance which the personal character of his master as an 
ideal t3'pe had for him — all this we learn with sufficient accu- 
racy from his writings, where he places his own incomparabl}^ 
more developed philosophical S3'stem in the mouth of his 
master, whom he makes the centre of his dialogues and the 
leader -of his discourses. 

3. His Years of Travel. — After the death of Socrates, 
399 B.C., in the thirtieth j^ear of his age, Plato, fearing lest 
he also should be met by the incoming reaction against phi- 
losophy, left, in company with other Socratics, his native cit}', 
and betook himself to Euclid, his former fellow- scholar, the 
founder of the Megaric school (c/. Sect. XIII. 4) at Megara. 
Up to this time a pure Socratic, he became greatlj^ animated 
and energized by his intercourse with the Megarians, among 
whom a peculiar philosophical direction, a modification of 
Socraticism, was already asserted. We shall see farther on 
the influence of this residence at Megara upon the foundation 
of his philosoph}", and especially upon the elaboration and 
dialectical confirmation of his doctrine of Ideas. One whole 
period of his literary activit}- and an entire group of his dia- 
logues, can only be satisfactoril}' explained b}^ tlie intellectual 
stimulus gained at this place. From Megara, Plato visited 
Cyrene, Egypt, Magna-Grecia, and Sicily. In Magna-Grecia 
he became acquainted with the Pythagorean philosophy, which 
was then in its highest bloom. His abode among the Pythago- 
reans had a marked effect upon him ; as a man it made him 
more practical, and increased his zest for life and his interest 



PLATO. 87 

in public life and social intercourse ; as a philosopher it fur- 
nished him with a new incitement to science, and new motives 
to literary labor. The traces of the Pj^thagorean philosophy 
may be seen through all the last period of his literary life ; 
especially his aversion to public and political life was greatly 
softened by his intercourse with the Pythagoreans. While in 
the TheatcEtus, he affirmed most x^ositively the incompatibility 
of philosophy with public life, we find in his later dialogues, 
especially in the Republic and also in the Statesman — upon 
which Pythagoreanism seems already to have had an influ- 
ence — a returning favor for the actual world, and the well- 
known statement that the ruler must be a philosopher is an 
expression very characteristic of this change. His visit to 
Sicily gave him the acquaintance of the elder Dionysius and 
Dion his brother-in-law, but the philosopher and the tyrant 
had little in common. Plato is said to have incurred his 
displeasure to so high a degree, that his life was in danger. 
After about ten 3'ears spent in travel, he returned to Athens 
in the fortieth year of his age (389 or 388 B.C.) 

4. Plato as Head of the Academy ; His Years of In- 
struction. — On his return, Plato surrounded himself with a 
circle of pupils. The place where he taught was known as 
the Academ}^, a gymnasium outside of Athens where Plato 
had inherited a garden from his father. Of his school and 
of his later life, we have only the most meagre accounts. 
His life passed evenl}^ along, interrupted onty b}' a second 
and third visit to Sicily, where meanwhile the 3"ounger Diony- 
sius had come to the thi-one. This second and third resi- 
dence of Plato at the court of Syracuse abounds in vicissi- 
tudes, and shows us the philosopher in a great variety of 
circumstances (c/. Plutarch's Life of Dion) ; but to us, in 
estimating his philosophical character, it is of interest only 
for the attempt, which, as seems probable from all accounts, 
he there made to realize his ideal of a state, and, by the philo- 
sophical education of the new ruler, to unite philosophy and 
the reins of government in one and the same hand, or at least 



88 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

in some wa}^ by means of philosophy to achieve a healthy 
change in the Sicilian state constitution, in an aristocratic 
clu'ection. His efforts were however fruitless ; the circum- 
stances were not propitious, and the character of the 3'oung 
Dionysius, who was one of those mediocre natures who strive 
after renown and distinction, but are capable of nothing pro- 
found and earnest, deceived the expectations concerning him 
which Plato, from Dion's account, thought he had reason to 
entertain. 

When we look at Plato's philosophical labors in the Acad- 
emy, we are struck with the different relations to public life 
which phUosoph}' had akead}" assumed. Instead of canying 
philosoph}^, like Socrates, into the streets and public places, 
and making it there a subject of social com^ersation with an}^ 
one who desired it, he lived and labored entirely withdrawn 
from the movements of the public, satisfied to influence the 
disciples who surrounded him. In proportion as philosophy 
becomes a S3'stem, and sj'stematic form is seen to be essen- 
tial, it loses its popular character and begins to demand pre- 
paratory scientific training, and to become a topic for the 
school, an esoteric affair. Yet such was the respect for the 
name of philosopher, and especiall}^ for the name of Plato, that 
requests were made to him b}' different states to compose for 
them a code of laws, a work which in some instances it was 
said he actually performed. Attended b}^ a retinue of de- 
voted disciples, among whom were even women disguised as 
men, and receiA^ug reiterated demonstrations of respect, he 
reached the age of eighty-one years, with his powers of mind 
unweakened to the latest moment. 

The close of his life seems to have been clouded by dis- 
turbances and divisions which arose in his school, and for 
which Aristotle was mainly responsible. While engaged in 
writing, or as others state, at a marriage feast, death came 
upon him as a gentle sleep, 348 r.c. His remains were buried 
in the Ccramicus, not far from the Academy. 



PLATO. 89 

II. The Inner Development of the Platonic Philoso- 
phy AND Writings. — That the Platonic philosophy is essen- 
tially a development ; in other words, that it should not be 
apprehended as a perfectly finished system to which the dif- 
ferent writings stand related as constituent elements, but that 
these are rather stages of its inner development, stages as 
it were passed over in the philosophical journe3-ings of the 
philosopher — is a view of the highest importance for the true 
estimate of Plato's hterary labors. 

Plato's philosophical and literar}' labors may be divided 
into three periods, which we can characterize in various wa3's. 
Looking at them chronologically or biographicall}^ we might 
call them respectively the periods of his years of discipline, 
of travel, of instruction ; or, if we view them in reference 
to the prevailing external influence under which they were 
formed, they might be termed the Socratic, Heraclitic-Eleatic, 
and the Pythagorean ; or, if we looked at the content alone, 
we might term them the antisophistic-ethic, the dialectic or 
mediating, and the systematic or constructive periods. 

The First Period — the Socratic — is marked externally 
by the predominance of the dramatic element, and in refer- 
ence to its philosophical standpoint, by an adherence to the 
method and the fundamental principles of the Socratic doc- 
trine. Not 3'et accm-ately informed of the results of former 
inquiries, and rather repelled from the study of the history of 
philosoph}^ than attracted to it by the character of the So- 
cratic philosophizing, Plato confined himself to an anal3'tical 
treatment of conceptions, particularly of the conception of 
virtue, and to a reproducing of his master, which, though 
something more than a mere recital of verbal recollections, 
had yet no philosophical independence. His Socrates ex- 
hibits the same view of life and the same scientific standpoint 
which the historical Socrates of Xenophon had had. His 
efforts were thus, hke those of his contemporary fellow dis- 
ciples, directed prominently toward practical wisdom. His 
struggles, like those of Socrates, were' rather with the pre- 



90 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

vailing want of science and the shallow sophisms of the day 
than with the antagonistic tendencies of science. The whole 
period bears an eclectic and hortatory character. The high- 
est point in which the dialogues of this group culminate is 
the attempt, which at the same time is found in the Socratic 
doctrine, to determine the certaint}^ of an absolute content 
the absolute existence (objective realit}^) of the good. 

The histor}' of the development of the Platonic philosophy 
would assume a very different form if the view of some mod- 
ern scholars respecting the date of the PJioedrus were correct. 
If, as they claim, the Fhcedrus were Plato's earliest work, 
this circumstance would betray from the outset an entirely 
different course of culture for him than we could suppose in 
a mere scholar of Socrates. The doctrine in this dialogue 
of the pre-existence of souls, and their periodical transmigra- 
tions, of the relation of earthly beauty with heavenly truth, 
of divine inspiration in contrast to human wisdom, the con- 
ception of love, the P^^thagorean ingredients, are all so dis- 
tinct from the original Socratic doctrine that we must transfer 
the most of that which Plato creatively produced during his 
whole philosophical career, to the beginning of his philosophi- 
cal development. The improbability of this, and numerous 
other grounds of objection, claim a far later composition for 
this dialogue. Setting aside for the present the Phcedrus, 
the Platonic development assumes the following form : 

The earliest of his works (if they are genuine) are the small 
dialogues which treat of Socratic questions and themes in a 
Socratic way. Of these, e.g., the Charynides discusses tem- 
perance, the Lysis friendship, the Laches valor, the lesser 
Jlippias knowing and wilful wrong-doing, the first Alcibiades 
the moral and intellectual qualifications of a statesman, etc. 
The immaturity and the crudeness of these dialogues, the use 
of scenic means which have onl}^ an external relation to the 
content, the scantiness and want of independence in the con- 
tent, the manner of investigation which is indirect and lacks 
a satisfactory and positive result, the formal and analytical 



PLATO. 91 

treatment of the conceptions discussed — all these features 
indicate the earlj^ character of these minor dialogues. 

The Protagoras may be taken as a proper ij^Q of the 
Socratic period. Since this dialogue, though directing its 
whole polemic against the Sophistic philosophy, confined it- 
self almost exclusively to the outward manifestation of this 
system, to its influence on its age and its method of instruc- 
tion in opposition to that of Socrates, without entering into 
the ground and philosophical character of the doctrine itself ; 
and, still farther, since, when it comes in a strict sense to 
philosophize, it confines itself to an indirect investigation of 
the Socratic conception of virtue according to its different 
aspects (virtue as knowledge, its unity and its teachableness, 
cf. Sect. XII. 8), — it represents in the clearest manner the 
tendency, character, and defects of the first period of Plato's 
literary life. 

The Gorgias written soon after the death of Socrates, rep- 
resents the third and highest stage of this period. Directed 
against the Sophistical identification of pleasure and virtue, 
of the good and of the agreeable, i.e., against the aflSrmation 
of an absolute moral relativity, this dialogue attempts to 
l)rove that the good, far from owing its origin only to the 
right of the stronger, and thus to the arbitrariness of the sub- 
ject, has in itself an independent reality and objective valid- 
ity, and, consequently, alone is truly useful, and that, there- 
' fore, the standard of pleasure must be subordinate to the 
higher standard of the good. In this direct and positive 
polemic against the Sophistic doctrine of pleasm^e, in its ten- 
dency to view the good as something firm and abiding, and 
secure against all subjective arbitrariness, consists primarily 
the advance which the Gorgias makes beyond the Protagoras. 

In the first Socratic period the Platonic philosophizing be- 
came ripe and ready for the reception of Eleatic and Pythago- 
rean categories. To grapple by means of these categories with 
the higher questions of philosophy, and so to free the Socratic 
philosophy from its close connection with practical life, was 
the problem of the second period. 



92 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

The Second Period — the dialectic or the Megaric — is 
marked external^, b}^ a less prominence of form and poetic 
coloring, and not unfrequently indeed, b}^ obscurity and diffi- 
culties of style, and internally, by the attempted mediation 
with the Eleatics through the complete exposition and dialec- 
tical establishment of the doctrine of ideas. 

By his exile at Megara, and his journeys to Italy, Plato 
became acquainted with other and opposing philosophical 
tendencies, with which he was obliged to come to an under- 
standing in order to elevate the Socratic doctrine to its true 
significance. It was now that he first learned to know the 
philosophic theories of the earlier sages, for the study of 
whicli the necessary means could not at that period, so want- 
ing in literary publicit}", be found at Athens. Through his 
comprehension of these varying standpoints, as his older 
fellow pupils had already striven to do, he attempted, over- 
stepping the narrow limits of ethical philosophizing, to reach 
the final ground of knowledge, and to perfect the art of gene- 
ralization as brought forward by Socrates to a science of 
conceptions, i.e., to the doctrine of ideas. That all human 
action rests upon knowledge, and all thinking upon concep- 
tions, were results to which Plato might already have attained 
through the scientific generalization of the Socratic doctrine 
itself ; but now to bring this Socratic wisdom within the circle 
of speculative thought, to establish dialectically that the con- 
ception in its simple unity is that which abides in the change 
of phenomena, to disclose the fundamental principles of 
knowledge which had been evaded by Socrates, to grasp the 
scientific theories of opponents immediately in their scientific 
grounds, and follow them out in all their ramifications, — this 
is the problem which the IVIegaric group of dialogues attempts 
to solve. 

The TheaUiitus stands at the head of this group. It is 
chi(!fly directed against tlie Protagorcan theory of knowledge, 
against the identification of thought and sensuous perception, 
or against the claim of an absolute relativity of all knowl- 



PLATO. 93 

edge. As the Gorgias before it had sought to estabhsh the 
independent being of the ethical, so does the Theatcetus, 
ascending from the ethical to the theoretical, endeavor to 
prove an independent being and objective reality for the logi- 
cal conceptions which lie at the ground of all representation 
and thinking, in a word, to prove the objectivity of truth, 
the fact that there lies a sphere of knowledge immanent in 
thought and independent of the perceptions of the senses. 
These conceptions, whose objective realit}^ is thus affirmed, 
are those of a species, likeness and unlikeness, identity and 
difference, etc. 

The Theatmtus is followed by the trilogy of the Sophist, the 
(Statesman, and the PhilosopJier, which completes the Megaric 
group of dialogues. The first of these dialogues examines 
the conception of appearance, that is of the not-being, the 
last (represented by the Parmenides) the conception of being. 
Both dialogues are attempts at a reconciliation with the 
Eleatic doctrine. After Plato had recognized the unity of 
thought and the logical categories as that which is permanent 
amid the alterations of phenomena, his attention was natu- 
rally turned towards the Eleatics, who in an opposite way 
had attained the similar result that in unity consists all 
true substantiality, and to multiplicity as such no true being 
belongs. In order more easily on the one side to carry out 
this fundamental thought of the Eleatics to its legitimate re- 
sult, in which the Megarians had already preceded him, he 
was obhged to elevate his abstract conceptions of species, 
i.e., ideas to the position of metaphysical substances. But 
on the other side, he could not agree with the inflexibility and 
exclusiveness of the Eleatic unity without wholly sacrificing 
the multiplicity of things ; he was rather obliged to attempt 
to show by a dialectic development of the Eleatic principle 
that the one must be at the same time a totality, organically 
connected, and embracing multiplicity in itself. This double 
relation to the Eleatic principle is carried out by the Sophist 
and the Parm.enides; by the former polemically against the 



94 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Eleatic doctrine, in that it proves the being of the appearance 
or the not-being, i.e., demonstrates the ninltiphcit}' of ideas 
and their antithetical character (which arises from the mutual 
negation of opposites) ; and b}' the latter ii'onicallj^ in that 
it reduces the Eleatic one by its own logical consequences to 
a manifold. The inner progress of the doctrine of Ideas in 
the Megaric group of dialogues is therefore this, viz., that the 
Theatoetus, in opposition to the Heraclitico-Protagorean theory 
of the absolute becoming, affirms the objective and indepen- 
dent realit}' of ideas, and the jSophist shows their reciprocal 
relation and power of combination, while ihe'Pai^menides in 
fine exhibits their whole dialectic complex, their relation to 
the phenomenal world, and their self- mediation with the 
latter. 

The Third Period begins with the return of the philoso-. 
pher to his native city. It unites the completeness of form 
belonging to the first with the profounder philosophical con- 
tent of the second. The memories of his 3'outhful yetxvs seem 
at this time to have risen anew before the soul of Plato, and 
to have imparted again to his literaiy activity' the long lost 
freshness and fulness of that period, while at the same time 
his abode in foreign lands, and especially his acquaintance 
with the Pythagorean philosoph}^, had greatly enriched his 
mind with a store of images and ideals. This revising of old 
memories is seen in the fact that the writings of this gi'oup 
return with fondness to the personality of Socrates, and rep- 
resent in a certain degree the whole philosophy of Plato as 
the exaltation of the doctrine and the ideal embodiment of 
the historical character of his earl}^ master. In opposition 
to both of the first two periods, the third is marked exter- 
nally by an excess of the mythical form together with the 
gi'owing influence of P3'thagoreanism in this period, and in- 
ternally by the application of the doctrine of ideas to the 
concrete spheres of ps3'cholog3', ethics, and natural science. 
That ideas possess objective realit}^ and are the foundation 
of all essentiality and truth, while the phenomena of the sen- 



PLATO. 95 

sible world are only copies of these, was a theory whose vin- 
dication was no longer attempted, but which was presupposed 
as ah-eady proved, and as forming a dialectical basis for the 
pm-suit of the different branches of science. With this was 
connected a tendency to unite the hitherto separate branches 
of science into a systematic whole, as well as to fuse together 
the previous philosophical developments, i.e., the Socratic 
ethics, the Eleatic dialectic, and the Pythagorean physics. 

Upon this standpoint, the Phoedrus, Plato's inaugural to 
his labors in the Academy, together with the Symposium^ 
which is closely connected with it (both proceeding from the 
conception of love as the true originating impulse to philoso- 
l^hy) attempts to subject the rhetorical theor}^ and practice 
of that time to a thorough criticism, in order to show in 
opposition to this theor}'' and practice that only in an exclu- 
sive reference to the idea, the true Eros, is found that con- 
scious certainty and distinctness of a scientific principle 
which is the onl}- means of escaping arbitrariness, absence 
of principle, and crudeness. On the same standpoint the 
Phcedo attempts to prove the immortality of the soul from 
the doctrine of ideas ; the Philebus to examine the concep- 
tions of pleasure and the highest good in the light of the 
highest categories of the system ; and finally the Repuhlic 
and Timceus^ which are his latest works, to unfold the essence 
of the state and of nature, of the physical and spiritual uni- 
verse. 

Having thus sketched the inner development of the Pla- 
tonic philosophy, we now turn to a S3^stematic statement of 
its principles. 

III. Classification of the Platonic System. — The phi- 
losophy of Plato, as left by himself, is without a systematic 
statement, and has no comprehensive principle of classifi- 
cation. He has given us only the history of his thought, 
the statement of his philosophical development ; we are there- 
fore limited in this regard to simple intimations. Accord- 
ingly, some have divided the Platonic system into theoretical 



96 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

and practical science, and others into a philosophy of the 
good, the beautiful, and the true. Another classification, 
which has some support in old records, is more correct. 
Some of the ancients say that Plato was the first to unite in 
one whole the scattered philosophical elements of the earlier 
sages, and so to obtain for philosophy the three parts, logic, 
phj'sics, and ethics. The more accurate statement is given 
by Sextus Empiricus, that Plato laid the foundation for this 
threefold division of philosophy, but that it was first expressly 
recognized and affirmed by his scholars, Xenocrates and Aris- 
totle. The Platonic system may, however, without difiSculty, 
be divided into these three parts. True, there are many dia- 
logues which combine in diff'erent proportions the logical, the 
ethical, and the physical element, and though even where 
Plato treats of some special discipline, the three are suflfered 
constantl}" to interpenetrate each other, still there are some 
dialogues in which this fundamental scheme can be clearly 
recognized. It cannot be mistaken that the Timceus is pre- 
dominantl}' pln'sical, and the Republic as decidedly ethical, 
and if dialectic is expressly represented in no separate dia- 
logue, yet the whole Megaric group which closes with the 
Parmenkles, and which was expressly declared by Plato to be 
a connected tetralogy, pursues the common end of bringing 
out the conception of science and its true object, being, and 
is, therefore, in its content decidedly dialectical. Plato must 
have been led to this threefold division by even the earlier de- 
velopment of philosophy, and since Xenocrates would scarcely 
have invented it, and Aristotle presupposes it as universally 
admitted, we need not scruple to make it the basis on which 
to present the Platonic S3'stem. 

The order which these different parts should take, Plato 
himself has not declared. Manifestl}', however, dialectic 
should have the first place as the ground of all philosophy, 
since Plato uniformly directs that ever}' philosophical inves- 
tigation should begin with accurately determining the idea 
(Phoid., p. 99 ; Fhcedr., p. 237) , while he subsequently exam- 



PLATO. 97 

ines all the concrete spheres of science from the standpoint 
of the doctrine of ideas. The relative position of the other 
two parts is not so clear. Since, however, ph3^sics culminates 
in ethics, and ethics, on the other hand, has for its basis 
physical investigations into the animating principle of nature, 
we may assign the precedence to physics. 

The mathematical sciences Plato has expressly excluded 
from philosoph3^ He considers them as helps to philosophi- 
cal thinking {Rep. VII. 526) , as necessary steps of knowledge, 
without which no one can come to philosophy (75. VI. 510) ; 
but mathematics with him is not itself philosophy, for it 
assumes its principles or axioms, without at all accounting 
for them, as though they were manifest to all, a procedure 
which is not permitted to pure science ; it also for its demon- 
strations avails itself of illustrative figures, although it does 
not treat of these, but of that which they represent to the 
understanding {lb.). Plato thus places mathematics mid- 
way between a connect opinion and science, clearer than the 
one, but more obscure than the other. {lb. VII. 533.) 

IV. The Platonic Dialectic. 1. Conception of Dia- 
lectic. — The conception of dialectic or logic, is used by the 
ancients for the most part in a very wide sense, while Plato 
employs it in repeated instances interchangeably with phi- 
losoph}', though at other times he treats it also as a separate 
branch of philosophy. He distinguishes it from physics as 
the science of the eternal and unchangeable from the science 
of the changeable, which never is, but is only ever becoming ; 
he distinguishes also between it and ethics, so far as the latter 
treats of the good not absolutely, but in its concrete exhibi- 
tion in morals and in the state ; so that dialectic may be 
termed philosophy in a higher sense, while physics and ethics 
follow it as two less exact sciences, or as a not yet perfected 
philosophy. Plato himself defines dialectic, according to the 
ordinary signification of the word, as the art of evolving 
knowledge conversationally by questions and answers {Bep. 
VII. 534) . But since the art of communicating correctly in 
6 



98 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

dialogue is, according to Plato, at the same time the art of 
thinking correctly, for thinking and speaking could not be 
separated by the ancients, but ever}'- process of thought was 
a living dialogue, Plato would more accurate^ define dialectic 
as the science which brings speech to a correct issue, and 
which combines or separates the species, i.e., the conceptions 
of things correct^ (Soph.^ p. 253; Phcedr., p. 266). Dia- 
lectic with him has two divisions, to know what can and what 
cannot be connected, and to know how division or combina- 
tion can be accomplished. But as with Plato these concep- 
tions of species or ideas are the only actual and true exist- 
ence, so have we, in entire conformity with this, a third 
definition of dialectic which is quite frequentl}' employed by 
him (Philebus, p. 57), namely, the science of being, the 
science of that which is true and unchangeable, the science 
of all other sciences. We may therefore briefly characterize 
it as the science of absolute being or of ideas. 

2. What is Science? (1) As op^oosed to sensation and 
sensuous conception. — The Theatcetus is devoted to the dis- 
cussion of this question in opposition to the Protagorean 
sensualism. That all knowledge consists in perception, and 
that the two are one and the same thing, was the Protago- 
rean proposition. From this it followed, as Protagoras him- 
self had inferred, that things are as they appear to me, that 
perception or sensation is infallible. But since perception 
and sensation are infinitely diversified with different indi- 
viduals, and even vary greatly at different times in the same 
individual, it follows farther, that no determinations and 
predicates are objective, that we can never affirm what a 
thing is in itself, that all conceptions, great, small, light, 
heavy, to increase, to diminish, etc., have only a relative sig- 
nificance, and consequently that general conceptions, since 
they are combinations of the changeful many, are wholly 
wanting in constancy and stabilit}'. In opposition to this 
Protagorean thesis, Plato urges the following objections and 
contradictions. First, The Protagorean doctrine leads to 



PLATO. 99 

the most startling consequences. If being and appearance, 
knowledge and perception are one and the same thing, then 
is the irrational brute, which is capable of perception, as fully 
entitled to be called the measure of all things, as man, and 
if representation, as the expression of my subjective state at 
a given time is infallible, then need there be no more instruc- 
tion, no more scientific conclusion, no more strife, and no 
more refutation. Second, The Protagorean doctrine is a 
logical contradiction ; for according to it Protagoras must 
yield the question to every one who disputes with him, since, 
as he himself aflSrms, no one is incorrect, but all perceptions 
and conceptions are equally true ; the pretended truth of 
Protagoras is therefore true for no man, not even for him- 
self. Third, Protagoras destroys the knowledge of future 
events. That which is regarded as profitable by me does 
not, because I so regard it necessarily prove itself such in 
the result. To determine that which is really profitable im- 
plies a calculation of the future, but since the ability of men 
to form such a calculation is very diverse, it follows from 
this that not man as such, but only the wise man can be the 
measure of things. Fourth, The theory of Protagoras de- 
stroys perception itself. Perception, according to him, rests 
upon a distinction of the perceived object and the perceiving 
subject, and is the common product of the two. But in his 
view the objects are in such an uninterrupted flow, that they 
can neither become fixed in seeing nor in hearing. This 
condition of constant change renders all knowledge from 
sense, and hence (the identity of the two being assumed) , all 
knowledge in general impossible. Fifth, Protagoras over- 
looks the a priori element in knowledge. It is seen in an 
analysis of the sense-perception itself, that all knowledge 
cannot be traced to the activity of the senses, but that there 
must also be presupposed besides these, intellectual func- 
tions, and hence an independent province of supersensible 
knowledge. We see with the eyes, and hear with the ears, 
but to group together the perceptions attained tlii'ough these 



100 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

different organs, and to hold them fast in the unitj^ of self- 
consciousness, is beyond the power of the activity of the 
senses. Again, we compare the different sense-perceptions 
with one another, a function which cannot belong to the 
senses, since each sense can only furnish its own distinctive 
perception. Still farther, we bring forward detenninations 
respecting the perceptions which we manifestly cannot owe 
to the senses, in that we predicate of these perceptions, 
being and not-being, likeness and unlikeness, etc. These 
determinations, to which also belong the beautiful and the 
odious, good and evil, constitute a peculiar province of 
knowledge, which the soul, independently of every sense- 
perception, brings forward through its own independent ac- 
tivity. The ethical consequences of this Protagorean doctrine 
are also exhibited by Plato, in other dialogues, by his polemic 
against sensualism. He maintains (in the jSophist), that men 
holding such opinions must be improved before they can be 
instructed, and that when made morally better, they will 
readily recognize the truth of the soul and its moral and 
rational capacities, and affirm that these are real things, 
though objects of neither sight nor of feeling. 

(2) The Relation of Knowledge to Opinion. — Opinion is 
just as little identical with knowledge as is sense-perception. 
An incorrect opinion is certainly different from knowledge, 
and a correct one is not identical with it, for it can be engen- 
dered by the art of speech without therefore attaining the 
validity of true knowledge. Correct opinion, so far as it is 
true in matter though imperfect in form, stands rather mid- 
way between knowing and not-knowing, and participates in 
both. 

(3) The Relation of Science to Thought. — In opposition 
to the Protagorean sensualism, there has been already estab- 
lished an energy of the soul independent of sensuous per- 
ception and sensation, competent in itself to examine the 
universal, and grasp true being in thought. There is, there- 
fore, a double source of knowledge, sensation and conception, 



PLATO. 101 

and rational thinking. Sensation refers to that which is con- 
ceived in a constant becoming and perpetual change, to the 
pure momentar}', which is in an incessant transition from the 
was, through the now, into the shall be {Paiin,, p. 152) ; it 
is, therefore, the source of dim, impure, and uncertain knowl- 
edge ; thought on the other hand refers to the abiding, which 
neither becomes nor departs, but remains ever the same. 
(Tim., p. 51.) Existence, saj^s the Timoeus (p. 27), is of 
two kinds, "that which ever is but has no becoming, and 
that which ever becomes but never is. The one kind, which 
is always in the same state, is comprehended through reflec- 
tion b}" the reason, the other, which becomes and departs, 
but never properlj' is, may be apprehended by sensuous per- 
ception without the reason." True science, therefore, flows 
alone from that pure and thoroughl}^ internal acti\dty of the 
soul which is free from aU corporeal qualities and every sen- 
suous disturbance. (Phced., p. 65.) In this state the soul 
looks upon things purely as they are (PhcecL, p. 66) in their 
eternal nature and unchangeable condition. Hence the true 
state of the philosopher is announced in the Phcedo (p. 64) , 
to be a willingness to die, a longing to fly from the body, as 
from a hindrance to true knowledge, and become pure spirit. 
According to all this, science is the thinking of true being or 
of ideas ; the means to discover and to know these ideas, 
or the organ for their apprehension is dialectic, or the art 
of separating and combining conceptions ; the true objects of 
dialectic are ideas. 

3. The Docteixe of Ideas in its Genesis. — The Platonic 
doctrine of ideas is the common product of the Socratic 
method of forming conceptions, the Heraclitic doctrine of 
absolute becoming, and the Eleatic doctrine of absolute be- 
ing. To the first of these Plato owes the idea of knowledge 
through conceptions, to the second the recognition of the 
sensuous as mere becoming, to the thu'd the positing of a 
sphere of absolute reality. Elsewhere (in the Philehus) Plato 
connects the doctrine of ideas with the Pythagorean thought 



102 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY 

that every thing may be formed from unity and multiplicity, 
from the limit and the unlimited. The aim of the Theatcetus, 
the SopJiist, and the Parmenides is to determine its relations 
to the principles of the Eleatics and Heraclitics ; this is 
effected in the Theatcetus by combating directly the principle 
of an absolute becoming, in the Sophist by combating directly 
the principle of abstract being, and in the Parmenides ironi- 
cally by taking up the Eleatic one and showing its true rela- 
tions. We have already spoken of the Theatcetus; we will 
now look for the development of the doctrine of ideas in the 
Sophist and Parmenides. 

The ostensible end of the former of these dialogues is to 
show that the Sophist is really but a caricature of the philoso- 
pher, but its true end is to establish the reality of phenomena, 
i.e., of the not-being, and to discuss speculatively the relation 
of being and not-being. The doctrine of the Eleatics ended 
with the rejection of all sensuous knowledge, declaring that 
the multiplicity of things, or the becoming, which we think we 
perceive, is in reality a mere appearance. In this there was 
clearly a contradiction ; the not-being was absolutely denied, 
and yet its existence in human thought was admitted. Plato 
at once draws attention to this contradiction, showing that a 
delusive opinion, which gives rise to a false image or repre- 
sentation, is not possible upon this theory which rests upon 
the assumption that the false, the not-true, i.e., not-being 
cannot even be thought. This, Plato continues, is the great 
difficulty in thinking of not-being, that both he who denies 
and he who affirms its reality is driven to contradict himself. 
For though it is inexpressible and inconceivable either as one 
or as man}", still, when speaking of it, we must attribute to 
it both being and multiplicity. If we admit that there is such 
a thing as a false opinion, we assume in this very fact the 
notion of not-being, for only that opinion can be said to be 
false which supposes either the not-being to be, or makes 
that, which is, not to be. In short, if there actually exists a 
false notion, so does there actually' and truly exist a not-being. 



PLATO. 103 

After Piato had thus established the reaht}^ of not-being, he 
discusses the relation of being and not-being, z.e., the rela- 
tion of conceptions generally" in their combinations and an- 
titheses. If not-being has no less reality than being, and 
being no more than not-being, if, therefore, e.gr., the not-great 
is as trul}' real as the great, then every conception may in the 
same way be apprehended as one side of an antithesis, as 
being and not-being at the same time : it is a being in ref- 
erence to itself, as something identical with itself, but it is 
not-being in reference to ever}^ one of the numberless other 
conceptions which can be referred to it, and with which, on 
account of its difference from them, it can have nothing in 
common. The conceptions of the same (ravrov) and the differ- 
ent (Odrepov) represent the general form of an antithesis. 
These are the universal formulae of combination for all con- 
ceptions. This reciprocal relation of conceptions as at the 
same time being and not-being, by vii'tue of which they can 
be arranged among themselves, forms the basis of the art 
of dialectic, which has to judge what conceptions can and 
what cannot be joined together. Plato illustrates this by 
taking the conceptions of being, motion (becoming) , and rest 
(existence) , and showing from them the results of the com- 
bination and reciprocal exclusion of ideas. The conceptions 
of motion and rest cannot well be joined together, though 
both of them may be joined with that of being ; the concep- 
tion of rest is therefore in reference to itself a being, but in 
reference to the conception of motion a not-being or different. 
Thus the Platonic doctrine of ideas, after having in the Tliea- 
tcetus attained its general foundation in fixing the objective 
reality of conceptions, becomes now still farther developed in 
the Sophist to a doctrine of the community of conceptions, 
i.e., of their reciprocal subordination and co-ordination. The 
category which conditions these reciprocal relations is that 
of not-being or difference. This fundamental thought of the 
Sophist, that being is not without not-being and not-being is 
not without being, may be expressed in modern phraseology 



104 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

thus : negation is not not-being but determinateness, and on 
the other hand all determinateness and concreteness of con- 
ceptions, all affirmation arises onl}^ through negation ; in 
other words the conception of contradiction is the soul of a 
philosophical method. 

The doctrine of ideas appears in the Parmenides as the 
positive consequence and progi'essive development of the 
Eleatic principle. Indeed in this dialogue, in that Plato 
makes Parmenides the chief speaker, he seems willing to 
allow that his doctrine is in substance that of the Eleatic 
sage. True, the fundamental thought of the dialogue — that 
the one is not conceivable in its complete singleness without 
the man}", nor the many without the one, that each neces- 
sarily presupposes and reciprocally conditions the other — 
stands in the most direct contradiction to Eleaticism. Yet 
Parmenides himself, by di^dding his poem into two parts, and 
treating in the first of the one and in the second of the many, 
postulates an inner mediation between these two externally 
so disjointed parts of his philosophy, and in this respect the 
Platonic theor}' of ideas might give itself out as the farther 
elucidation, and the true sense of the Parmenidean philoso- 
phizing. This dialectical mediation between the one and the 
not-one or the many Plato now attempts in four antinomies, 
which have ostensibty only a negative result in so far as 
the}^ show that contradictions arise both whether the one be 
adopted or rejected. ^ The positive sense of these antinomies, 
though it can be gained only through inferences which Plato 
himself does not expressl}' utter, but leaves to be di'awn by 
the reader — is as follows. The first antinom}" shows that 
the one is mconceivable as such if it is only apprehended in 
its abstract opposition to the man}" ; the second, that in this 
case also the realit}" of the man}' is inconceivable ; the thu'd, 
that the one or the idea cannot be conceived as not-being, 
since there can be neither conception nor predicate of the 
absolute not-being, and since, if not-being is excluded from 
all fellowship with being, all becoming and departing, all 



PLATO. 105 

similarity and difference, ereiy representation and explana- 
tion of it must also be denied ; and lastl}-, the foiuth affirms 
that the not-one or the many cannot be conceived without 
the one or the idea. TThat now is Plato's aim in this dis- 
cussion of the dialectic relations between the conceptions 
of the one and the many ? "Would he use the conception of 
the one only as an example to explain his dialectic method 
with conceptions, or is the discussion of this conception itself 
the very object before him? Manifestl}' the latter, or the 
dialogue ends without result and without any inner connec- 
tion of its two parts. But how came Plato to make such a 
special investigation of this conception of the one? K we 
bear in inind that the Eleatics had already perceived the an- 
tithesis of the actual and the phenomenal world in the antith- 
esis of the one and the man}', and that Plato himself had also 
regarded his ideas as the unit}' of the manifold, as the one 
and the same in the man}' — since he repeatedly uses " idea" 
and " the one " in the same sense, and places {Rep. YTl. 5o7) 
dialectic in the same rank with the faculty of reducing a 
manifold to unity — then is it clear that the one which is 
made an object of investigation in the Parmenides is the idea 
in its general sense, i.e., in its logical form, and that Plato 
consequently m the dialectic of the one and the many would 
represent the dialectic of the idea and the phenomenal world, 
or In other words would dialectically determine and establish 
the correct view of the idea as the unity in the manifoldness 
of the phenomenal. In that it is shown in the Parmenides^ 
on the one side, that the many cannot be conceived without 
the one, and on the other side, that the one must be some- 
thing which embraces in itself manifoldness, so have we the 
ready inference on the one side, that the phenomenal world, 
or the many, has a true being only in so far as it has the one 
or the conception within it, and on the other side, that since 
the conception is not an absti'act one but manifoldness in 
unity, it must actually have manifoldness in unity in order 
to be able to be in the phenomenal world. The indu'ect re- 



106 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

suit of the Parmenides is that matter as the infinitely divisible 
and undetermined mass has no actuality, but is in relation 
to the ideal world a not-being, and though the ideas as the 
true being are manifested in it, yet the idea itself is all that 
is actual in the appearance or phenomena ; the phenomenal 
world derives its whole existence from the ideal world which 
appears in it, and has being only so far as it has a conception 
or idea for its content. 

4. Positive Exposition of the Doctrine of Ideas. — 
Ideas ma}^ be defined according to the diff'erent sides of their 
historical connection, as the common in the manifold, the 
universal in the particular, the one in the many, or the con- 
stant and abiding in the changing. Subjectively the}^ are 
principles of knowledge which cannot be derived from expe- 
rience, the}^ are the intuitively certain and innate regulators 
of cognition. Objectively they are the immutable principles 
of being and of the phenomenal world, incorporeal and simple 
unities which have no relation to space, and which may be 
predicated of every thing which can in any way be posited as 
self-subsistent. The doctrine of ideas gTew original out 
of the desire to gain a definite conception of the inner essence 
of things, of what things are in themselves, to express by 
thought whatever of being is identical with thought, and to 
comprehend the real world as a harmoniously connected in- 
tellectual world. This desire for scientific knowledge Aris- 
totle cites expressly as the motive to the Platonic doctrine 
of ideas. "Plato," he says {Metaph. XIII. 4), "came to 
the doctrine of ideas because he was convinced of the truth 
of the Heraclitic view which regarded the sensible world as a 
ceaseless flowing and changing. His conclusion from this 
was, that if there be a science of an}^ thing there must be, 
besides the sensible, other substances which have perma- 
nence, for there can be no science of the fleeting." It is, 
therefore, the idea of science which demands the reality of 
ideas, a demand which cannot be met unless ideas or con- 
ceptions are also the ground of all being. This is the case 



PLATO. 107 

with Plato. According to him there can be neither true 
knowledge nor true being without ideas and conceptions 
which have an independent reality. 

What now does Plato mean b}^ idea? From what has 
already been said it is clear that he means something more 
than ideal conceptions of the beautiful and the good. An 
idea is found, as the name itself (eiSos) indicates, wherever 
a universal conception of a species or kind is found. Hence 
Plato speaks of the idea of a bed, table, strength, health, 
tone, color, ideas of simple relations and properties, ideas 
of mathematical figures, and even ideas of not-being, and of 
that, which in its essence is merely a contradiction of the 
idea, baseness, and vice. In a word, we may put an idea 
wherever many things may be characterized by a common 
name {Rep. X. 596) : or as Aristotle expresses it {Met. XII. 
3), Plato posits an idea for ever}^ class of being. In this 
sense Plato expresses himself in the beginning of the Farme- 
nides. Parmenides asks the young Socrates what he calls 
ideas. Socrates answers b}^ naming unconditionally the moral 
ideas, the ideas of the true, the beautiful, the good, and then 
after a little delay he mentions some phj'sical ones, as the 
ideas of man, of fire, of water ; he will not allow ideas to be 
predicated of that which is only a formless mass, or which 
is a part of something else, as hair, mud, and cla}- , but in 
this he is answered by Parmenides, that if he would be fully 
imbued with philosophy, he must not consider such things as 
these to be wholly despicable, but should look upon them 
as truly though remotely participating in the idea. Here at 
least the claim is asserted that no province of being is ex- 
cluded from the idea, that even that which appears most acci- 
dental and irrational is yet a part of rational knowledge, in 
fact that every thing existing may be conceived as rational. 

5. The relation of Ideas to the Phenomenal World. — - 
Analogous to the different definitions of idea are the differ- 
ent names which Plato gives to the sensible and phenomenal 
world. He calls it the many, the divisible, the unbounded, 



108 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the undetermined and measureless, the becoming, the rela- 
tive, gTeat and small, not-being. But in what relation these 
two worlds of sense and of ideas stand to each other is a 
question which Plato has answered neither fully nor consist- 
ently with himself. If, as is most common, he characterizes 
the relation of things to conceptions as a participation, or 
calls things the copies and adumbrations, while ideas are the 
archetypes, these metaphorical definitions do not explain, but 
on the conti-ar}' merel}' hide the chief difficulties in the doc- 
trine of ideas. The difficulty lies in the contradiction which 
gi'ows out of the fact that while Plato admits the reality of 
the becoming and of the province of the becoming, he still 
affirms that ideas, which are substances ever at rest and ever 
the same, are the onl}' actualities. Now in this Plato is indeed 
formally consistent with himself, in that he characterizes the 
materiel of matter not as a positive substratum but as not- 
being, and guards himself with the express affii'mation that he 
does not consider the sensuous as being, but onl}' as some- 
thing similar to being. {Rep. X. 597.) The position laid 
down in the Parmenides is also consistent with this, that a 
perfect philosoph}" should look upon the idea as the cogniza- 
ble in the phenomenal world, and should foUow it out in the 
smallest particulars until every part of being should be known 
and all dualism removed. In fine, Plato in man}^ of his ex- 
pressions seems to regard the world of sensation only as a 
subjective appearance, as a product of subjective representa- 
tion, as the result of a confused wa}' of representing ideas. 
In this sense phenomena are entirely dependent on ideas ; 
they are nothing but the ideas themselves in the form of not- 
being ; the phenomenal world derives its whole existence from 
the ideal world which appears in it. But 3'et when Plato calls 
the sensuous a mingling of the same with the different or the 
not-being (Tim., p. 35), when he characterizes the ideas as 
vowels which run through every thing like a chain (Soph., 
p. 253), when he himself conceives the possibilit}' that matter 
might offer opposition to the formative energy of ideas {Tim., 



PLATO. 109 

p. 56) , when he speaks of an eyil soul of the world (de Leg. 
X. 896), and gives intimations of the presence in the world 
of a principle in nature hostile to God {PoUt., p. 268), when 
he in the Fhcedo treats of the relation between bod}^ and soul 
as one wholly discordant and malignant, — in all this there is 
evidence enough, even after allowing for the mj-thical form 
of the Timoeus, and the rhetorical composition which prevails 
in the Fhcedo, to substantiate the contradiction mentioned 
above. This is most clear in the Timceus, Plato in this 
dialogue makes the sensible world to be fonned by a Creator 
who uses ideas as patterns, but posits as a condition of the 
creative activity of this Demiurge or Creator a something 
which should be apt to receive and exhibit this ideal image. 
This something Plato compares to the matter which is fash- 
ioned by the artisan (whence the later name hyle) . He char- 
acterizes it as wholly undetermined and formless, but possess- 
ing in itself an aptitude for every variety of form, an invisible 
and shapeless thing, a something which it is difficult to char- 
acterize, and which Plato even does not seem inclined very 
closely to describe. In this the actuahty of matter is denied ; 
even when Plato makes it equivalent to space it is only the 
place, the negative condition of the sensible ; it possesses 
being only as it receives in itself the ideal form. Still matter 
remains the objective and phenomenal form of the idea : the 
visible world arises onl}' through the mingling of ideas with 
this substratum, and if matter be metaphysically expressed 
as " the different," then does it follow with logical necessity 
in a dialectical discussion that it is just as trul}" being as 
not-being. Plato does not conceal from himself this diffi- 
culty, and therefore attempts to represent with comparisons 
and images this presupposition of a hyle which he finds it as 
impossible to do without as to express in an intelligible form. 
If he would do without it he must rise to the conception 
of an absolute creation, or consider matter as an ultimate 
emanation from the absolute spirit, or else explain it as 
appearance only. Thus the Platonic system is only a fruit- 
less struggle against dualism. 



110 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

6. The idea of the Good and the Deity. — If the true 
is exhibited in general conceptions which are so related to 
each other that every higher conception embraces and com- 
bines under it several lower, so that any one starting from a 
single idea may eventually discover all {Meno., p. 81), then 
must the sum of ideas form a connected organism and succes- 
sion in which the lower appears as a stepping-stone and pre- 
supposition to a higher. This succession must end in an 
idea which needs no higher idea or presupposition to sustain 
it. This highest idea, the ultimate limit of all knowledge, 
and itself the independent ground of all other ideas, Plato 
calls the idea of the good, i.e., not of moral but of meta- 
ph3'sical good. (BejJ. VII. 517.) 

What this good is in itself, Plato undertakes to show only 
in images. "In the same manner as the sun," he says in 
the Republic (VI. 506) , " is the cause of sight, and the cause 
not merely that objects are visible but also that the}' grow 
and are produced, so the good is of such power and beaut}^, 
that it is not merely the cause of science to the soul, but is 
also the cause of being and reality to whatever is the object 
of science ; and as the sun is not itself sight or the object of 
sight but presides over both, so the good is not science and 
truth but is superior to both, thej^ being not the good itself 
but of a goodly nature." The idea of the good excludes all 
presupposition, in so far as the good has unconditioned worth 
and lends value to every thing else. It is the ultimate ground 
at the same time of knowing and of being, of the perceiver 
and the perceived, of the subjective and the objective, of the 
ideal and the real, though itself exalted above such a distinc- 
tion. (Eep. VI. 508-517.) Plato, however, did not attempt 
a derivation of the remaining ideas from the idea of the good ; 
his course here is wholly an empirical one ; a certain class of 
objects are taken, and having been referred to their common 
essence, this latter is given out as their idea. He treated 
individual conceptions so independently, and made each one 
so complete in itself, that it is impossible to find a proper 



PLATO. Ill 

division or establish an immanent continuation of one into 
another. 

It is difficult to say precisely what relation, in the Platonic 
view, this idea of the good, and the ideal world in general, 
bore to the Deity. On the whole it seems clear that Plato 
regarded the two as identical, but whether he conceived this 
highest cause to be a personal being or not is a question 
which hardty admits of a definite answer. The logical result 
of his system would exclude the personality of God. If only 
the universal (the idea) truly exists, then must the only abso- 
lute idea, the Deity, be only the absolute universal ; but that 
Plato was himself conscious of this logical conclusion we can 
hardly affirm, any more than we can say on the other hand 
that he was clearly a theist. For though in numberless 
m^'thical or popular statements he speaks of God and the 
gods, this only indicates that he is speaking in the language 
of the popular religion, and when he speaks in an accurate 
philosophical sense, he only makes the relation of the per- 
sonal deity with the idea a very uncertain one. Most prob- 
able, therefore, is it that this whole question concerning the 
personality of God was not 3^et definitely before him, that he 
took up this idea and defended it in the interests of morality 
against the anthropomorphism of the mythic poets, and that he 
sought to establish it by arguments drawn from the evidences 
of design in nature, and the universal prevalence of a belief 
in a God, while as a philosopher he made no use of it. 

y. The Platonic Physics. 1. Nature. — The connec- 
tion between the Physics and the Dialectic of Plato lies prin- 
cipall}" in two points, — the conception of becoming, which 
forms the chief characteristic of natm^e, and that of real 
being, which, when apprehended as the good, is the basis of 
every teleological explanation of nature. Since nature be- 
longs to the province of krational sensation it cannot claim 
the same accuracy of treatment as is exhibited in dialectic. 
Plato therefore applied himself with much less zest to physi- 
cal investigations than to those of an ethical or dialectical 



112 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

character, and indeed only attended to them in his later years. 
Onl}' in one dialogue, the Timceus, do we find any extended 
evolution of physical doctrines, and even here Plato seems 
to have gone to his work with much less than his wonted in- 
dependence, this dialogue being more strongly tinctured with 
Pji^hagoreanism than any other of his writings. The diffi- 
cult}' of the Timceus is increased by its mythical form, by 
which the old commentators themselves were puzzled. If 
we take the first impression that it gives us, it appears to 
posit as prior to the creation of the world, a Creator (or 
Demiurgus) as moving and reflecting principle, with on the 
one side the ideal world existing immovable as the eternal 
archetj'pe, and on the other side, a chaotic, formless, in-egu- 
lar, fluctuating mass, which holds in itself the germ of the 
material world, but has no determined character nor sub- 
stance. From these two elements the Creator now constructs 
the world- soul, i.e., the invisible dj^namical principle (which 
is, however, conceived as extended in space) of the order 
and movement of the world. The Demiurgus spreads out this 
world-soul like a vast net or frame throughout the entire 
space which the world when created is to occup}^, dividing 
this space thus into two spheres, viz., the region of the fixed 
stars and the planetary heavens, and sub-dividing the second 
into seven smaller cycles corresponding to the orbits of the 
seven planets. The material world, which has become actual 
through the arrangement of the chaotic mass into the four 
elements, is built into this frame, and the process thus begun 
is completed in its internal structure b}^ the formation of the 
organic world. 

It is difficult to separate the m3^thical and the philosophical 
elements in this cosmogony of the Timceus, especially difficult 
to determine how far that which is historical in this construc- 
tion, the succession of creative acts in time, belongs to the 
mere form. The significance of the world-soul is clearer. 
In the Platonic system the soul is, in general, a mean be- 
tween the ideas and corporeal existence, the medium thi'ough 



PLATO. 113 

which matter is formed, individualized, animated, and gov- 
erned ; or, in a word, is raised from disorderly multiplicity 
to organic unity and maintained in this condition. In a sim- 
ilar way, with Plato, number is a mean between the idea and 
phenomena, in so far as through it the totality of material 
being is brought into the definite quantitative relations of 
multitude, magnitude, figure, parts, position, distance, etc., 
— in a word, articulated arithmetically and geometrically, in- 
stead of existing as a limitless and undiff'erentiated mass. 
In the world-soul both these functions are united. It is the 
universal medium between ideas and phenomena, the great 
world-schema which on a grand scale forms and articulates 
matter, the mighty world-force b}^ which matter (e.g., the 
heavenly bodies) is kept within this order, moved (revolved) , 
and, through this ordered movement raised to a real copj^ of 
the idea. The Platonic view of nature, in opposition to the 
mechanical explanations of the earlier philosophers, is entkely 
teleological, and based upon the conception of the good. 
Plato conceives the world as the image of the good, as the 
work of divine munificence. Constructed bj^ its Demiurgus 
in accordance with the eternal idea it is perfect, the ever- 
abiding, never-changing image of the good, vitalized and 
rationahzed through the indwelling soul, — infinite^ beau- 
tiful, nay divine. As it is the image of the perfect it is 
therefore only one, corresponding to the idea of the single 
all-embracing substance, for an infinite number of worlds is 
not to be conceived as actual. For the same reason the 
world is spherical, after the most perfect and uniform struc- 
tm-e, which embraces in itself all other forms ; its movement 
is in a cu'cle, because this, by returning into itself, is most 
like the movement of reason. The particular points of the 
TlmcBus, the derivation of the four elements, the separation 
of the seven planets according to the musical scale, the opin- 
ion that the stars were immortal and heavenl}' substances, 
the aflarmation that the earth holds an abiding position in the 
middle of the world, a view which subsequently became elab- 



114 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

orated to the Ptolemaic S3'stem, the reference of all material 
figm-es to elementar}^ geometrical forms, the division of inani- 
mate nature, according to the four elements, into beings of 
fire and light (gods and demons), and of earth, water, and 
au', the discussions respecting organic nature, and especialty 
respecting the construction of the human body — all these we 
need here onl}' mention. Then* philosophical worth consists 
not so much in then- material content, — for they rather serve 
to show the entu-e worthlessness of the natm-al science of 
that age, — as in theii* fundamental idea, that the world 
should be conceived as the image and the work of reason, 
as an organism of order, harmony, and beauty, as the good 
actualizing itself. 

2. The Soul. — The doctrine of the soul, considering it 
simpl}' as the basis of moral action, and leaving out of view 
all questions of concrete ethics, is the completion, the cope- 
stone of the Platonic phj^sics. The individual soul possesses 
the same natm'e and character as the world-soul. It is essen- 
tial to the perfection of the world that it should contain a 
plurality of souls, through which the principle of rationalitj^ 
and A'itality ma}' be particularized in a plenitude of indi- 
viduals. The soul is in itself indestructible, and by vu-tue 
of its rationality is of a divine natm-e ; it is formed for the 
knowledge of the divine and eternal, for a pure and blessed 
life in the contemplation of the ideal world. But no less 
essential to it is its connection with a material, perishable 
bod}'. A race of perishable beings must, for the sake of 
completeness in the genera of things, be represented in the 
universe ; and this is accomplished by individual souls through 
their residence in the body. The soul, while it is united to 
the body, participates in its movements and changes ; it is, 
thus, in this respect, related to the perishable, and subject 
to the changing conditions of sensuous life, to the influence 
of sensuous impressions and impulses. It cannot, therefore, 
retain its pure divinity ; it sinks from the heavenly to the 
earthly, from the Godlilvc to the perishable. In the indi- 



PLATO. 115 

vidual soul is exhibited the conflict between the higher prin- 
ciple and the lower ; intellect fields to the power of sense ; 
the latent duaUsm between idea and realit}^ which in the 
universe taken as a whole is reduced to unity, finds here, in 
the soul, its complete actualit3^ Though on the one hand 
the souls rules and restrains the body, it is on the other 
hand just as truly swayed by the body, bound down by it to 
the lower sensuous life, to forgetfulness of its nobler origin, 
and to the finitude of perception and volition. This interac- 
tion of soul and bodj' is mediated thi'ough an inferior, sensu- 
ous faculty of the soul ; hence Plato distinguishes in the soul 
two constituents, the divine and the perishable, the rational 
and the irrational, between which is placed, as a mediating 
link, courage (^v/^os) , which, though nobler than sensuous im- 
pulse, yet, since it is exhibited by children and even by brutes, 
and often allows itself to be carried away blmdly without 
reflection, belongs to man's sensuous natm^e, and must not be 
confounded with reason. Thus, according to the Platonic 
doctrine, the soul, during its connection with the body, is in 
a condition totally inadequate to its nature. Potentially it is 
divine, in possession of true knowledge, self-subsistent, free, 
— actually it is precisel}^ the reverse, weak, sensuous, subject 
to the influence of its ph3'sical nature, entangled in evil and 
sin b}^ all the disquietudes, impulses, jiassions, and conflicts 
which originate in the predominance of the sensuous principle, 
in the necessity of ph3'sical self-preservation, and in the strug- 
gle for possession and enjojTnent. A dim consciousness of its 
loftier origin, a longing for its home, the ideal world, does in- 
deed remain with it, and mamfest itself as love of knowledge, 
enthusiasm for the beautiful {Eros) , and in the endeavor of 
the spu'it to become master of the ho&y. But this ver}^ long- 
ing shows that the true hfe of the soul cannot be this present 
sensuous existence, but must lie in a futui-e to be realized 
only after its separation from the body. The soul which has 
abandoned itself to sensuaht}- is condemned to enter into 
other bodies or even into lower forms of existence from 



116 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

which it is released only when in the course of time it has 
returned to its original purity. The pure soul which has 
endured unsoiled the test of association with the corporeal 
world returns at death immediatel}^ to its state of blessed 
rest ; then, after a brief period of enjojnnent, it resumes once 
more its life in the bod}'. Plato's accounts of these future 
states of the soul do not always accord one with another ; 
the statements of the Plimdrus and Fhcedo, of the Hepublic 
and Timoeus^ differ in many respects. Plato is, however, 
lilie the Pythagoreans, really in earnest in the matter. It is 
really his opinion that the progress of the world, the his- 
tory' of the universe, has for its content just this perpetual 
transition of souls from the higher to the lower, from the 
divine to the human world. The soul is of too noble a 
nature to merely begin with this hfe and then vanish ; it is 
divine and eternal. It is not, however, pure being, like the 
idea ; it has in itself something of ' ' the other " ; it is at once 
spiritual and unspiritual, free and not free. These two con- 
tradictor}^ elements are manifested in that change from the 
superior to the inferior state under the form of a succession 
in time. The soul exhibits the enigma of an equal inclina- 
tion toward the ideal and the sensuous ; and this enigma is 
solved, according to Plato, b}^ just this doctrine of the con- 
stitution and destiny of the soul itself. All this appears to 
be very different from Socrates. The Socratic postulate that 
man ought not to act from sensuous impulses, but inteUi- 
gentl}', seems to be transformed into a speculative philoso- 
pheme which endeavors to explain how the sensuous and 
rational are united in man. But it is just this fact, that the 
whole of Plato's philosophy is concentrated upon this point, 
I.e., upon the ethical nature and character of the soul, which 
proves him to be a true disciple of the master who had 
aroused in him this lofty idea of the exaltation of spirit over 
sense. 

VI. - The Platonic Ethics. — The main problem of Plato's 
ethics (which is nothing but the practical application of liis 



PLATO. 117 

theory of ideas), as with the ethics of the other Socratics, is 
to define the highest good, the end which all volition and 
action posit as their goal. From the definition of the summum 
bonum is deduced the theory of vktue, which in turn is the 
basis of the doctrine of the state, z.e., of the objective real- 
ization of the good in human societ3^ 

(1) The Highest Good. What this supreme aim must be 
is at once evident from the general character of the Platonic 
S3^stem. Not life amid the nonentities, mortalit}^, and vicis- 
situdes of sensuous existence, but exaltation to the ideal, to 
the only true being, is both in itself and for man that which 
is absolutely' good. The soul's problem and vocation is to 
flee from the internal and external evils of sense, to purify 
and free itself from the influences of the body, and to strive 
to become pure, upright, and thus godlHie {Thecetetus; 
Phcedo) . The wa^" to attain this is to withdraw the mind 
from sensuous conceptions and desires, and direct it upon 
that cognition of the truth which reflection alone can give, — 
in a word, upon philosophy. Philosophy is with Pato as 
with Socrates, not something purely theoretical, but the 
return of the soul to its true nature, a spiritual regeneration 
in which the soul regains its lost knowledge of the ideal 
world, and thus the consciousness of its own higher origin, 
of its original superiority to the sensuous world. In phUoso- 
ph}^ the mind purifies itself from all admixture of sense ; it 
comes to itself and re-obtains that freedom and rest of which 
its immersion in the material had deprived it. Such being 
Plato's conception of the highest good, it was natural that 
he should vehemently oppose the hedonism of the Sophistic- 
C3Tenaics. The Gorgias and Philehus are especially de- 
voted to the refutation of their views. In these dialogues 
he endeavors to prove that pleasure is something insubstan- 
tial and indefinite, which can give to life neither order nor 
harmony; that it is altogether relative since it can readily 
be transformed into pain, and induces pain just in proportion 
to its own intensity ; and that it is a contradiction to place 



118 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

pleasure, which in itself is worthless, above the power and 
vu-tue of the soul. Yet on the other hand, Plato no more in 
his practical than in his theoretical philosoph^^ approved of 
the Cj'nic-Megaric abstraction which would recognize noth- 
ing positive except cognition, no concrete spiritual activity, 
no special science or art, nor au}^ refinement of life through 
pleasure. The concrete sciences and arts, and those kinds 
of pleasure which do not impau' the harmony of the spiritual, 
those pure, painless, passionless, innocent delights which spring 
from the contemplation of spiritual and natural beauty, have 
their proper sphere as well as pure philosoph}^ The good is 
not a life of mere knowledge or mere pleasure, but the unity 
of the two ; yet it is a life in which knowledge predominates, 
since it is the element through which volition and action are 
reduced to rationality, order, and measure. A certain vacil- 
lation in Plato's opinions in regard to the highest good must 
not, however, be overlooked. As sensuous existence is for 
him, at one time, a pure nonentit^^, the mere disturbance 
and distortion of ideal being, and at another a beautiful 
cop3' of the ideal arcliet3'pe ; so in the ethics we perceive 
sometimes a tendency towards a purely ascetic view of sense 
as the source of sin and evil {Phcedo) , and at others, a more 
positive view (Symposium ; Philehus) which considers a life 
without pleasure to be too abstract, monotonous, and spirit- 
less, and therefore permits the beautiful to maintain a posi- 
tion coordinate with the good. 

2. Virtue. — In his theory of virtue, Plato is at first wholly 
Socratic. He holds fast to the opinion that it is knowledge 
(Protagoras), and therefore teachable (Meno) ; and as to 
its unity, though it follows from his later dialectical investi- 
gations that the one can be manifold, or the manifold one, 
and that, therefore, virtue must both be regarded as one, and 
also as many, he nevertheless emphasizes prominently the 
unity and connection of all virtues, and is fond of painting, 
especially in tlie introductory^ dialogues, some single virtue 
as comprising in itself the sum of all the rest. Plato follows 



PLATO. 119 

for the most part the fourfold division of wtues, as popu- 
larly made ; and only in the Repuhlic (IV. 441) does he 
attempt a scientific derivation of them, by referring to each 
of the thi'ee faculties of the soul its appropriate ^Ti'tue. The 
vktue of the reason he calls prudence or wisdom, the dii^ect- 
ing or measuring vu^tue, since reason must govern the soul ; 
the \di'tue of the heart is valor, the helpmeet of reason, or 
it is the heart imbued with ti'ue knowledge, which in the 
sti'uggie against pleasm-e and pain, desire and fear, asserts 
itself to be the correct judge of that which ought or ought not 
to be feared ; the virtue of sensuous desire, whose function is . 
to restrain this within its proper hmits, is temperance ; and, 
lasth", that ^drtue to which belong the due regulation and 
mutual adjustment of the several powers of the soul, and 
which, therefore, constitutes the bond and the unit}" of the 
three other -sdrtues, is justice. 

In this last conception, that of justice, aU the elements of 
moral culture meet together and centre, exhibiting the moral 
life of the indi^ddual as a perfect whole, and then, b}^ requir- 
ing an application of the same principle to communities, the 
moral consideration is advanced beyond the narrow cu'cle of 
indi^ddual life. Thus is established the whole of the moral 
world — Justice " in great letters," the moral Life in its com- 
plete totality, is the state. In this is first realized the de- 
mand for the complete harmony of the human life. In and 
through the state comes the complete elaboration of matter 
for the reason. 

3. The State. — The Platonic state is generally regarded 
as an ideal or chimera, which it is impracticable to realize 
among men. This view of the case has even been ascribed to 
Plato, and it has been said that in his Repuhlic he attempted 
to sketch only a fine ideal of a state constitution, while in 
the LaiDs he traced out a practicable philosoph}" of the state 
from the standpoint of the common consciousness. But in 
the first place, this was not Plato's own opinion. Although 
he acknowledges that the state he describes cannot be found 



120 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

on earth, and is only a heaventy archetj-pe adapted merely 
to the instruction of the philosopher (IX. 592), still he de- 
mands that eflbrts should be made to reahze it here, and he 
even attempts to show the conditions and means under which 
such a state could be made actual, b^^ adapting its particular 
institutions to counteract the defects arising from the different 
characters and temperaments of men. A constitution, disso- 
ciated from the idea, could only appear untrue to a philoso- 
pher like Plato, who saw the actual and the true only in the 
idea ; and the common view which supposes that he wi'ote 
his Republic in the full consciousness of its impracticability, 
mistakes entu-ely the standpoint of the Platonic philosoph3\ 
Still farther the question whether such a state as the Platonic 
is attainable and the best, is in itsehf idle and iiTelevant. 
The Platonic state is the Grecian idea of a state presented 
in the form of a narrative. But the idea, that which is 
rational in the world's histor}', — since it is absolutely actual, 
that in the existent which is essential and necessar}^, — is no 
inane and impotent ideal. The truly ideal is not to he actual, 
but is actual, and the onl}^ actual ; if an idea were too good 
for existence, or the empmcal actualit}^ too bad for it, then 
were this a fault of the ideal itself. Plato has not given him- 
self up merely to abstract theories ; the philosopher cannot 
transcend his age, but can onl}^ see and grasp it in its true 
significance. This Plato has done. His standpoint is his 
own age. He looks upon the political life of the Greeks as 
then existing, and it is this life, exalted to its idea, which 
forms the real content of the Platonic Repuhlic. Plato has 
here represented Greek morality on its substantial side. If 
the Platonic Rejmblic seems prominentl}^ an ideal which can 
never be realized this is owing much less to its ideality than 
to the defects of the poUtical life of the ancients. The most 
prominent characteristic of the Hellenic conception of the 
state, before the Greeks began to fall into unbridled licen- 
tiousness, was the constraint tlu'own upon personal subjective 
freedom, in the sacrifice of everj^ individual interest to the 



PLATO. 121 

absolute sovereignty of the state. With Plato also, the state 
is all in all. His political institutions, so loudly ridiculed 
b}' the ancients, are only the undeniable consequences follow- 
ing from the very idea of the Grecian state, which in distinc- 
tion from the modern state, allowed neither to the individual 
citizen nor to a corporation, any lawful sphere of action inde- 
pendent of itself. It did not recognize the principle of sub- 
jective freedom ; and it is just this non-recognition of the 
subject, which Plato, in opposition to the ruinous tendencies 
of his age, made the fundamental principle of his state. 

The grand feature of the Platonic state is, as has been said, 
the sacrifice of the individual to the universal state, the re- 
duction of moral to political vu'tue. Plato cleskes that social 
ethics shall become universal and attain a firmly established 
existence ; sense must everywhere be resti-ained and subor- 
dinated to intelligence. But if this is to be accomplished, 
a universal, f.e., a political, authorit}' must undertake the 
education of all in \artue, and the presei-vation of good 
morals, and all indiAddual self-will and selfishness must be 
subordinated to the common will and the common good. The 
sensuous principle in man is so might}' that it can be ren- 
dered powerless only b}' the superior strength of social insti- 
tutions, through the suppression of all selfish activity- for 
private ends, and the merging of the indi^-idual in the uni- 
versal. Only in this way is virtue, and thus true blessedness 
possible. Vh'tue must be realized first in the state and then 
in the individual citizen. Hence the severity and rigor of 
the Platonic theory of the state. In a perfect state all things, 
joy and sorrow, and even eyes, ears, and hands, must be 
common to all, so that the social life would be as it were the 
hfe of one man. This perfect universalit}' and unity, can 
only be actuahzed when ever}- thing individual and particular 
falls away. Private property and domestic life (in place of 
which comes a community of goods and of wives) , education 
and instruction, the choice of rank and profession, the arts 
and sciences, all these must be subjected and placed under 
6 



122 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the exclusive and absolute control of the state. The indi- 
yidual may lay claim only to that happiness which belongs 
to him as a constituent element of the state. From this point 
Plato goes down into the minutest particulars, and gives the 
closest directions respecting gymnastics and music, which 
form the two means of culture of the higher ranks ; respect- 
ing the stud}^ of mathematics, and philosophy, the choice of 
stringed instruments, and the proper measure of verse ; re- 
specting bodily exercise and the service of women in war ; 
respecting marriage settlements, and the age at which any 
one should study dialectic, marry, and beget children. The 
state with him is only a great educational establishment, a 
family in the mass. — Lyric poetry he would allow only under 
the inspection of competent judges. Epic and dramatic poe- 
try, even Homer and Hesiod, should be banished from the 
state, since thej^ rouse and lead astray the passions, and give 
unworth}' representations of the gods. Exhibitions of physi- 
cal degenerac}" or weakness should not be tolerated in the 
Platonic state ; deformed and sickly infants should be aban- 
doned, and food and attention should be denied to the sick. 
— In all this we find the chief antithesis of the ancient to the 
modern state. Plato did not recognize the will and choice 
of the individual, and yet the individual has a right to demand 
this. The problem of the modern state has been to unite 
these two sides, to bring the universal end and the particular 
aims of the individual into harmony, to reconcile the highest 
possible freedom of the conscious individual will, with the 
highest possible supremacy of the state. 

The political institutions of the Platonic state are decidedly 
aristocratic. Grown up in opposition to the extravagances 
of the Athenian democracy, Plato prefers an absolute mon- 
archy to every other constitution, though this should have as 
its absolute ruler only the perfect philosopher. It is a well- 
known expression of his, that the state can only attain its 
end when philosophers become its rulers, or when its present 
rulers have prosecuted their studies so far and so accurately, 



PLATO. 123 

that tliey can unite philosopliy with a superintendence of 
public affairs (V. 473). His reason for claiming that the 
sovereign power should be vested onl}^ in one, is the fact that 
very few are endowed with political wisdom. This ideal of 
an absolute ruler who should be able to govern the state per- 
fectly, Plato abandons in the Laws^ in which work he shows 
his preference for a mixed constitution, embracing both a 
monarchical and a democratic element. From the aristo- 
cratic tendency of -the Platonic state, follows farther the 
sharp division of ranks, and the total exclusion of the thh-d 
rank from a proper political life. In reality Plato makes but 
two classes in his state, the subjects and the sovereign, an- 
alogous to his twofold ps^^chological division of sensible and 
intellectual, mortal and immortal ; but as in psj^cholog}" he 
had introduced a middle term, spirit, to stand between his 
two divisions there, so in the state he brings in the military 
class between the ruler and those intended to suppl}" the 
phj'sical wants of the community. We have thus three 
ranks, that of the ruler, corresponding to the reason, that 
of the warrior, answering to the heart (courage), and that 
of the craftsman, which is made parallel to appetite or sen- 
suous desire. To these three ranks belong three separate 
functions : to the first, that of legislation and caring for the 
general good ; to the second, that of defending the common- 
wealth from attacks of external foes ; and to the third, the 
care of separate interests and wants, as agi-iculture, me- 
chanics, etc. From each of these three ranks and its func- 
tions the state derives a peculiar virtue — wisdom from the 
ruler, bravery from the warrior, and temperance from the 
craftsman, so far as he lives in obedience to his rulers. In 
the proper union of these three vu'tues is found the justice of 
the state, a virtue which is thus the sum of all other A^rtues. 
Plato pays little attention to the lowest rank, that of the 
craftsman, who exists in the state onl}^ as means. He held 
that it was not necessary to give laws and care for the rights 
of this portion of the communit3\ The separation between the 



124 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

ruler and the warrior is not so broad. Plato suffers these two 
ranks to interpenetrate each other, and analogous to his origi- 
nal psychological division, as though the reason were but 
courage in its highest development, he makes the oldest and 
the best of the warriors rise to the dignit}^ and power of 
rulers. The education of its warriors should therefore be a 
chief care of the state, in order that their spu'it, though 
losing none of its peculiar energy, maj' jxt be imbued with 
reason. The best endowed b}' nature and culture among the 
warriors, may be selected at the age of thirty, and put upon, 
a course of careful training. When he has reached the age 
of fifty and looked upon the idea of the good, he ma}* be 
bound to actualize this archetype in the state, provided 
alwa3's that every one wait his turn, and spend his remain- 
ing time in philosoph3\ Onl}* thus can the state be raised to 
the unconditioned rule of reason under the supremac}" of the 
good. 

VII. Retrospect. — With Plato Greek philosoph}* reached 
the highest point of its development. The Platonic S3'stem 
is the first complete construction of the entire natural and 
spiritual universe in accordance with one single philosophical 
principle ; it is the type of all higher speculation, of all meta- 
ph3-sical as well as ethical idealism. Based upon the com- 
paratively simple foundation laid hy Socrates philosophy 
here for the first time attained a complete realization ; here, 
with Plato, the spirit of philosophj^ elevated itself to that full 
self-consciousness, which with Socrates was onl}' a dim, un- 
certain instinct. Plato's soaring genius was required to com- 
pletely realize that for which Socrates had prepared the way. 
But at the same time Plato placed philosophy in an idealistic 
opposition to the given actualit}', which, springing more from 
his individual character and surroundings than from the na- 
ture of the Greek mind, needed to be supplemented b}' a 
realistic view of things. This was supplied by Aristotle. 



THE OLD ACADEMY. 125 

SECTION XV. 

THE OLD ACADEJSIY. 

Ik the old Academ}- we find no spii-it of invention, and 
with few exceptions, no movements of progi-ess, but rather 
a gi'adual retrogi-ession of the Platonic philosophizing. After 
the death of Plato, Speusippus, his nephew and disciple, 
taught in the Academy during eight jxars. He was suc- 
ceeded by Xenocrates, after whom came Polemo, Crates, and 
Grantor. It was a time in which schools for higher cultm-e 
were established, and the older teacher yielded to his 3'ounger 
successor the post of insti'uction. The general characteristics 
of the old Academ}', so far as can be gathered from the scant}" 
accounts concerning it, were great attention to learning, the 
lorevalence of P3'thagorean elements, especially the doctrine 
of number, and lastlj', the reception of fantastic and demon- 
ological notions, among which the worship of the stars played 
a part. The prevalence of the P^'thagorean doctrine of num- 
ber in the later instructions of the Academ}', gave to mathe- 
matical sciences, particularly arithmetic and astronomy, a 
high place, and at the same time assigned to the doctrine of 
ideas a much lower position than Plato had given it. Subse- 
quently, the attempt was made to get back to the unadul- 
terated doctrine of Plato. Crantor is said to be the first editor 
of the Platonic writings. 

As Plato was the only true Socratic, so was Aristotle the 
only genuine disciple of Plato, though often accused by his 
fellow-disciples of being unfaithful to his master's principles. 

We pass on at once to him, without stopping now to inquire 
into his relation to Plato, or the advance which he made be- 
3'ond his predecessor, since these points will come up before 
us in the exposition of the Aristotehan philosophy. (See 
Sect. XVI., in. 1.) 



126 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION XVI. 

ARISTOTLE. 

I. Life and Writings of Aristotle. — Aristotle was born 
385 B.C. at Stagii'a, a Greek colonj" in Thi'ace. His father, 
Nicomaclius, was a phj'siciau, and the friend of AmjTitas, 
king of jMacedonia. The foimer fact ma}" have had its influ- 
ence in determining the scientific tendencies of the son, and 
the latter maj' have procured his subsequent suromons to the 
Macedonian com't. Aiistotle at a yer}" earty age lost both 
his pai-ents. In his seventeenth year he came to Plato at 
Athens, and continued with him twent}" j^ears. On account 
of his indomitable zeal for study, Plato named him ' ' the 
Keader," and said, upon comparing him with Xenocrates, 
that the latter required the spur, the former the bit. Among 
the many charges made against his character, most prominent 
are those of jealousy and ingratitude towards his master, but 
most of the anecdotes in which these charges are embodied 
merit little credence. It is certain that Aristotle, after the 
death of Plato, stood in fricndl}' relations with Xenocrates ; 
still, as a writer, he can hardly be absolved from a certain 
want of friendship and regard towards Plato and his philoso- 
ph}', though all this can be exi:>lained on ps3xhological 
gi'ounds. After Plato's death, Aristotle went with Xenocrates 
to Hermias, t}Tant of Atarneus, whose sister Pj-thias he mar- 
ried after Hermias had fallen a victim to Persian treacher3\ 
After the death of P^-thias he is said to have married his con- 
cubine, Herp3'llis, who was the mother of his son Nicomachus. 
In the 3'ear 343 he was called b}' Philip of Macedon, to take 
the charge of the education of his son Alexander, then 
thirteen ^-ears old. Both father and son honored him 
higlily, and the latter, with royal munificence, subsequently 
supported him in nis studies. AMicn Alexander went to 



AHISTOTLE. 127 

Persia, Aristotle betook himself to Athens, and taught in the 
Lj'ceum, the only gynmasium then vacant, since Xenocrates 
had possession of the Academ}', and the Cynics of the C}tio- 
sarges. From the shady waUvS (TreptVaroi) of the Lyceum, in 
■which Aristotle was accustomed to walk and expound his 
X:)hilosoph3', his school received the name of the Peripatetic. 
Aristotle is said to have spent his mornings vrith his more 
mature disciples, exercising them in the profoundest questions 
of philosophy, while his evenings were occupied with a gTeater 
niunber of pupils in more general and preparatory instruc- 
tion. The former investigations were called acroamatic, the 
latter exoteric. He abode at Athens, and taught thu'teen 
years, and then, after the death of Alexander, whose dis- 
pleasure he had incuiTcd, he is said to have been accused b}' 
the Athenians of impietj' towards the gods, and to have fled 
to Chalcis, in order to escape a fate similar to that of Socrates. 
He died in the year 322 at Chalcis, in Euboea. 

Aiistotle left a vast nmnber of writings, of which the 
smaller (perhaps a sixth) , but unquestionabl}' the more im- 
portant portion have come down to us, though in a fonn 
which admits of many doubts and objections. The stor}' of 
Strabo about the fate of the Aristotehan wiitiugs, and the 
injmy which the}' suffered in a cellar at Scepsis in Troas is 
confessedly a fable, or at least limited to the original manu- 
scripts ; but the fragmentary and descriptive form of man}' 
among them, and especially of the most imjDortant (e.{/., the 
Iletaphysic) , the fact that scattered portions of one and the 
same work {e.g,^ the Ethics) are repeatedly found in different 
treatises, the uTegularities and sti'iking contradictions m one 
and the same ti'eatise, the disagreement found in other par- 
ticulars among different works, and the distinction made by 
Aristotle himself between acroamatic and exoterical wiitings, 
all this gives reason to believe that we have, for the most 
part, before us only his oral lectiu^es written down, and sub- 
sequently edited by his scholars. 



128 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

II. General Character and Division of the Aristote- 
lian Philosophy. — With Plato, philosophy had been na- 
tional in both its form and content, but with Aristotle it loses 
its Hellenic peculiaritj", and becomes universal in scope and 
meaning ; the Platonic dialogue changes into barren prose ; a 
rigid, technical language takes the place of the m3i:hical and 
poetical di-ess ; the thinking which had been with Plato intui- 
tiA'e, is with Aristotle discursive ; the immediate intuition of 
reason in the former, becomes reflection and conception in the 
latter. Turning awa}' from the Platonic unit}" of all being, 
Aristotle prefers to direct his attention to the manifoldness of 
the phenomenal ; he seeks the idea only in its concrete ac- 
tualization, and consequentl}' gTasps the particular far more 
prominentl}" in its peculiar determinateness and reciprocal 
differences, than in its connection with the idea. He em- 
braces with equal interest the facts given in natiu*e, in his- 
tory, and in the inner life of man. But he ever tends toward 
the individual, he must ever have a fact given in order to 
develop his thought uj^on it ; it is alwaj^s the empmcal, the 
actual, which solicits and guides his speculation ; his whole 
philosophy- is a description of the facts given, and only merits 
the name of a philosoph}- because it comprehends the empm- 
cal in its totality" and synthesis, because it has carried out its 
induction to the farthest extent. Onl}- because he is the ab- 
solute empiricist may Aristotle be called the truest philosopher. 

This character of the Aristotelian philosophy explains at 
the outset its enc3'clopedic tendency, inasmuch as eveiy 
thing given in experience is equally worthy of regard and inves- 
tigation. Aristotle is thus the founder of man}" departments 
of science unknown before him ; he is not onl}" the father of 
logic, but also of natm-al histor}-, empuical psycholog}", and 
the science of rights. 

This devotion of Aristotle to the given facts will also ex- 
plain liis predominant inclination towards ph3"sics, for nature 
is the most immediate and actual. Connected also with this 
is the fact that Aristotle is the first among philosophers who 



AKISTOTLE. 129 

gave to histoiy and its tendencies an accurate attention. 
The fii'st book of the Metaphysic is also the first attempt at 
a histoiy of philosopli}', as his Politics is the first critical 
account of the difl'erent historical states and constitutions. 
In both these cases he brings out his own theorj' only as a 
deduction from historical data^ basing it in the former case 
upon the works of his predecessors, and in the latter case 
upon the constitutions which lie before him. 

It is clear that according to this, the method of Aristotle 
must be a difl'erent one from that of Plato. Instead of pro- 
ceeding like the latter, synthetical!}" and dialecticall}', he 
pursues for the most part an analjlic and regressive com'se, 
that is, going backward from the concrete to its ultimate 
ground and determination. While Plato would take his 
standpoint in the idea, in order to explain from this position 
and set in a clearer light that which is given and empuical, 
Aristotle on the other hand, starts with that which is given, 
in order to find and exhibit the idea in it. His method is, 
hence, induction ; that is, the derivation of certain principles 
and maxims from a sum of given facts and phenomena ; his 
mode of procedure is, usuall}', argument, an impartial bal- 
ancing of facts, phenomena, circumstances and i^ossibihties. 
He appears to be for the most part only a thoughtful ob- 
server. Eenouncing all claim to universality and necessity 
in his results, he is content to have brought out that which 
has an approximate truth, and the highest degree of proba- 
bilit}^ He often affinns that science does not simplj' relate 
to the changeless and necessary-, but also to that which ordi- 
naril}' takes jplace, that being alone excluded from its prov- 
ince, which is strictly accidental. Philosophy, consequently, 
has with him the character and worth of a computation of 
probabihties, and his mode of exposition assumes not unfre- 
quently the form of a hesitatmg dehberation. Hence there 
is in him no trace of the Platonic ideals ; hence, also, his re- 
pugnance to a glowing and poetic style in philosophy, a 
repugnance which, while it induces in hhn a fixed, philo- 



130 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY^ 

sopliical teiTQinolog}', also frequentl}^ leads Mm to mistake 
and misrepresent the opinions of his predecessors. Hence, 
also, in whatever he treated, his thorough adherence to the 
actual facts. 

Connected, in fine, with the empirical character of the 
Ai'istotelian philosophizing, is the fragmentary form of his 
^Titings, and theu' want of a systematic division and arrange- 
ment. Proceeding alwaj's from particular to particular, he 
considers ever}^ province of the actual by itself, and makes it 
the subject of a separate treatise ; but he, for the most part, 
fails to indicate the lines hy which the different parts are 
united and comprehended in a systematic whole. Thus he 
founded a number of co-ordinate sciences, each one of which 
has an independent basis, but he fails to give us the highest 
science which embraces them all. It is sometimes affu'med 
that all his writings follow the idea of a whole ; but in their 
procedure there is such a want of all S3-stematic connection, 
and ever}' one of his writings is a monograph so thoroughl}' 
independent and complete in itself, that we are sometimes 
puzzled to know what Aristotle himself received as a part of 
philosoph}', and what he excluded, "\^"e are never fui'uished 
with an independent scheme or outline, we rarel}^ find definite 
results or summar}- explanations. Even the different divisions 
of philosoph}' which he gives, var}' essentially from one 
another. At one time he divides science into theoretical and 
practical, at another, he adds to these two a poetical creative 
science, while still again he speaks of the three parts of sci- 
ence, ethics, physics, and logic. At one time he divides the- 
oretical philosoph}' into logic and physics, and at another into 
thcolog}-, mathematics, and phj'sics. But no one of these 
divisions has he expressly given as the basis on which to 
represent his s^'stem ; he himself places no value upon this 
method of division, and, indeed, openly declares himself op- 
posed to it. It is, therefore, onl}' for the sake of uniformity 
that we can give tlie preference here to the threefold division 
of philosophy as already adopted by Plato. 



AEISTOTLE. 131 

m. Logic axd ]Metaphtsic. 1. Nature and Eelation 
OF THE T^o. — The word metapliYsic was first employed by 
the AiTstotehau commentators. Plato had used the term 
dialectic, and Aristotle had characterized the same thing as 
" fii'st philosophy," while he calls phj^sics the "second phi- 
losoph}'." The relation of this first philosophy to the other 
sciences Aristotle determines in the following way. Eyery 
science, he says, must haye for iuyestigation a determined 
province and particular form of being, but none of these sci- 
ences reaches the conception of being itself. Hence there is 
needed a science which shall inyestigate that which the other 
sciences take up hypothetically, or thi'ough experience. This 
is done by the ' • first philosox:)hy " which has to do with being 
as such, while the other sciences relate only to determined and 
concrete being. The metaph3'sic, which is this science of 
being and its primitiye gi'ounds, is the first philosophy, since 
it is presupposed by eyery other discipline. Thus, says Aris- 
totle, if there were only a x^hysical substance, then would 
physics be the fii'st and the only philosophy, but if there be 
an immaterial and umnoyed essence which is the gTOund of 
all being, then must there also be an antecedent, and because 
it is antecedent, a uniyersal philosophy. The first gTound of 
all being is God, whence Aristotle occasionally giyes to the 
fii'st philosophy the name of theology-. 

It is diflicult to determine the relation between this ' ' first 
philosophy" as the science of the ultimate gi'ound of things, 
and that science which is ordinarily termed the logic of Aris- 
totle, and which is exhibited in the writings bearing the name 
of the Organon. Aristotle himself has not accm-ateh' exam- 
ined the relations of these two sciences, the reason for which 
is doubtless to be found in the uicomplete form of the 3feta- 
'pliysic. But since he has embraced them both under the same 
name of logic ; since the iuyestigation of the essence of 
things (^^I. 17), and the doctrine of ideas (XIII. 5), are 
expressly called logical ; since he repeatedly attempts in the 
Metaphysic (Book W.), to estabhsh the logical principle of 



132 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

contradiction as an absolute presupposition for all thinking 
and speaking and philosophizing, and employs the method of 
argument belonging to that science which has to do with the 
essence of things (III. 2, IV. 3) ; and since, in fine, the cat- 
egories to which he had alread}^ devoted a separate book in 
the Organon are also discussed again in the Metapliysic (Book 
v.), it follows that this much at least may be affirmed with J , 
certaint}", that he would not absolutely separate the investiga- ^ j 
tions of the Organon from those of the Metapliysic^ and that 
he would not approve the ordinary division of formal logic 
and metaphysic^ although he has omitted to show their inner' 
connection. ' , f j i « 

2. Logic. — The great problem both of the logical faculty 
and also of logic both as science and art, is to form and judge 
of sj'llogisms, and through syllogisms to be able to establish 
a proof. Syllogisms, however, arise from propositions, and 
propositions from conceptions. From this point of view, 
which arises from the very nature of the case, Aristotle has 
in the different books of the Organon discussed the details of 
his theory of logic and dialectic. The first treatise in the 
Organon is that containing the categories^ a work which treats 
of the universal determinations of being, and is the first at- 
tempt at an ontolog}^ Of these categories Aristotle enumer- 
ates ten ; substance, magnitude, quality, relation, the where, 
the when, position, possession, action, and passion. The 
second treatise {De Interpretatione) investigates speech as the 
expression of thought, and discusses the doctrine of the 
parts of speech, propositions and judgments. The third con- 
sists of the " Analytics^'' which show how conclusions may be 
referred back to their principles and arranged in accordance 
with their premises. The fivat Analytic contains in two books 
the general theory of the syllogism. Syllogisms are accord- 
ing to their content and aim either apodictic, which possess a 
certain and incontrovertible truth, or dialectic, which are 
directed toward that which may be disputed and is probable, 
or, finally, sophistic, which lead deceptively to incorrect con- 



AEISTOTLE. 133 

elusions. The doctrine of apodictic sjilogisms and thus of 
proofs is given in the two books of the second Analytic^ that 
of dialectic is furnished in the eight books of the Tojnc, and 
that of sophistic in the treatise concerning " Sophistical 
Proofs." 

A detailed statement of the Aristotelian logic would be 
famihar to every one, since the formal representations of this 
science ordinarily given, employ for the most part only the 
material furnished b}' Aristotle. Kant has remarked, that 
since the time of the Grecian sage, logic has made neither 
progress nor retrogression. Only in two points has the for- 
mal logic of our time advanced beyond that of Aristotle ; 
first, in adding to the categorical syllogism, which was the 
onl}' one Aristotle had in mind, the hypothetical and disjunc- 
tive, and second, in adding the fourth to the first three figures 
of the syllogism. But the incompleteness of the Aristotelian 
logic, which might be pardoned in the foundation of the 
science, still remains, and its thoroughly empirical method 
not only still continues, but has even been exalted to a prin- 
ciple b}^ means of the un- Aristotelian antithesis between the 
fonn of a thought and its content. Aristotle, in reality, only 
attempted to collect the logical facts in reference to the for- 
mation of propositions, and the method of syllogisms ; he has 
given in his logic only the natural histor}^ of finite thinking. 
However highly we may rate the correctness of his abstrac- 
tion, and the clearness with which he brings into conscious- 
ness the logical operation of the understanding, we must 
make equall}^ conspicuous with this the want of all scientific 
derivation and foundation. The ten categories which he, as 
ah'eady remarked, has discussed in a separate treatise, he 
simply mentions, without furnishing any ground or principle 
for this enumeration ; that there are this number of categories 
is only a matter of fact to him, and he even cites them diflfer- 
ently in different writings. In the same way also he takes 
up the figures of the s^ilogism empirically; he considers 
them only as fonns and relations of formal thought, and 



134 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

remains thus within the province of the logic of the under- 
standing, although he declares the syllogism to be the only 
form of science. Neither in his Metapliysic nor in his Physics 
docs he apply the rules of formal inference which he develops 
in the Organon, clearly proving that he has nowhere in his 
system properly elaborated either his categories or his analj^tic ; 
his logical investigations do not influence generally the de- 
velopment of his philosophical thought, but have for the most 
part onl}' the value of a preliminar}^ investigation of language. 

3. Metapiiysic. — Among all the Aristotelian writings, the 
Metapliysic is least entitled to be called a connected whole ; 
it is onl}^ a collection of sketches, which., though thej^ follow 
a certain fundamental idea, utterly lack inner mediation and 
perfect development. We ma}" distinguish in it seven distinct 
groups. (1) Criticism of the previous philosophic s^^stems 
from the standpoint of the four Aristotelian principles. Book 
I. (2) Exposition of the apories or philosophical prelimi- 
nar}^ questions, III. (3) The principle of contradiction, IV. 
(4) Definitions, V. (5) Examination of the conception of 
essence (ovo-ta) and intelligible being (the ri rjv eTi/at) or the 
conception of matter (i^'At;), form (etSos), and that which arises 
from the connection of these two {a-vvoXov) , VII., YIII. (G) 
Potentialit}" and actualit}', IX. (7) The Divine Spirit moving 
all, but itself unmoved, XII. (8) To these we may add the 
polemic against the Platonic doctrine of ideas and numbers, 
which runs through the whole Metapliysic^ but is especially 
carried out in Books XIII. and XIV. 

(1) The Aristotelian Criticism of the Platonic Doctrine of 
Ideas. — In Aristotle's antagonism to the Platonic doctrine 
of ideas, we must seek for the specific difference between the 
two systems, a dificrence which Aristotle avails himself of 
every opportunity (especially Metaph. I. and XIII.) to ex- 
press. Plato had beheld all actuality in the idea, but the 
idea was to him a rigid truth, which had not yet become in- 
terwoven with the life and the movement of existence. Such 
a view, however, had this dilliculty ; the idea, however little 



AEISTOTLE. 135 

Plato would have it so, found standing over against it in 
independent being the phenomenal world, while it furnished 
no principle on which the being of the phenomenal world 
could be affirmed. This Aiistotle recognizes, and charges 
upon Plato, that his ideas were only "immortalized things 
of sense," from which the being and becoming of the sensible 
could not be explained. In order to avoid this consequence, 
he himself makes out an original reference of mind to phe- 
nomena, affirming that the relation of the two is that of the 
actual to the possible, or that of form to matter, and consid- 
ering also mind as the absolute actuality of matter, and 
matter, as the potentially mind. His argument against the 
Platonic doctrine of ideas, Aristotle makes out in the follow- 
ing way : — 

Passing by the fact that Plato fm-nished no satisfactory 
proof for the objective and independent reality of ideas, and 
that his theor}^ is without vindication, we ma}^ affirm in the 
fii'st place that it is wholly unfruitful, since it possesses no 
ground of explanation for being. The ideas have no proper 
and independent content. To see this we need only refer to 
then' origin. In order to make science possible Plato posited 
certain substances independent of the sensuous ]Darticulars, 
and uninfluenced by their changes. But to serve such a 
puipose, there was offered to him nothing other than this in- 
dividual thing of sense. Hence he gave to this individual a 
universal form, which was with him the idea. From this it 
resulted, that his ideas can hardly be separated from the sen- 
sible and individual objects which participate in them. The 
ideal duality and the empirical duality have one 'and the 
same import. The truth of this we can readily see, when- 
ever we gain from the adherents to the doctrine of ideas a 
definite statement respecting the peculiar character of thek 
unchangeable substances, in comparison with the sensible and 
individual things which participate in them. The only differ- 
ence between the two consists in appending per se to the 
names expressing the respective ideas ; thus, while the indi- 



136 A HISTOHY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

vidual things are, e.g.^ man, horse, etc., the ideas are man 
2ier se, horse per se, etc. There is only this formal change 
for the doctrine of ideas to rest upon ; the finite content is 
not removed, hut is only cliaracterized as eternal. This ob- 
jection, that in the doctrine of ideas "we have in reality only 
the sensible posited as a not-sensible and endowed with the 
predicate of immutabilit}", Aristotle urges as above remarked 
when he calls the ideas " immortalized things of sense," not 
as though they were actually something sensible and spacial, 
but because in them the sensible individual merely loses its 
individuality, and becomes a universal. He compares them 
in this respect with the gods of the popular and anthropo- 
morphic religion ; as these are nothing but deified men, so 
the ideas are only things of nature endowed with a super- 
natural potency, the sensuous exalted to the non-sensuous. 
This identity between the ideas and their corresponding indi- 
vidual things amounts moreover to this, that the introduction 
of ideas doubles the objects to be known in a burdensome 
manner, and without any good results. Why set up the 
same thing twice? Why besides sensuous twofoldness and 
threefoldness, aflSrm a twofoldness and threefoldness in the 
idea? The adherents of the doctrine of ideas, when they 
posit an idea for every class of natural things, and through 
this theory set up two equivalent series of sensible and not- 
sensible substances, seem therefore to Aristotle like men who 
think they can reckon better with many numbers than with 
few, and who therefore go to multiplying their numbers before 
they begin their reckoning. Again the doctrine of ideas is 
tautological, and wholly unfruitful as an explanation of being. 
' ' The ideas do not assist us to the knowledge of the indi- 
vidual things participating in them, since the ideas are not 
immanent in these things, but separate from them." Equally 
unfruitful are the ideas when considered in reference to the 
arising and departing of the things of sense. They contain 
no principle of becoming, of movement. There is in them 
no causality which might bring about tlie event, or explain 



AEISTOTLB. 137 

the event when it had actually happened. Themselves with- 
out motion and process, if they had any effect, it could only 
be that of perfect repose. True, Plato affirms in his Phceclo 
that the ideas are causes both of being and becoming, but in 
spite of the ideas, nothing ever becomes without a moving 
force ; the ideas, by their separation from the becoming, 
have no such power of movement. This indifferent relation 
of ideas to the actual becoming, Aristotle brings under the 
categories, potentiality and actualit}^, and affirms that the 
ideas are onl}^ potential, are only bare possibility and essen- 
tiality because they are wanting in actualit}^ — The inner 
contradiction of the doctrine of ideas is in brief this, viz., 
that it posits an individual immediately as a universal, and 
at the same time pronounces the universal, the species, to be 
numerically an individual ; the ideas are posited on the one 
side as separate indimlual substances, and on the other side 
as participant, and therefore as universal. Although the 
ideas, as the original conceptions of species, are universals 
which arise when being is fixed in existence, and the one 
brought out in the many, and the abiding given a place in the 
changeable, yet according to the Platonic notion, that they 
are individual substances, they are indefinable, for there can 
be neither definition nor derivation of an absolute individual, 
since even the word (and only in words is a definition possi- 
ble) is in its nature a universal, and belongs also to other 
objects ; consequently, every predicate by which I attempt 
to determine an individual thing cannot belong exclusively 
to that thing. The adherents of the doctrine of ideas, are 
therefore not at all in a condition to give an idea an intelhgi- 
ble definition ; their ideas are indefinable. — In general, Plato 
has left the relation of individual objects to ideas verj' ob- 
sciire. /' He calls the ideas arcliet3'pes,'and allows that the 
objects may participate in them ; yet are these only poetical 
metaphors. How shall we represent to om'selves this "par- 
ticipation," this copying of the original archet^^pe? We seek 
in vain for more accm-ate explanations of this in Plato. It 



138 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

is impossible to conceive how and whj' matter participates in 
the ideas. In order to explain this, we must add to the ideas 
a still liigher and wider principle, which contains the cause 
for this "participation" of objects, for without a moving 
principle we find no gi'ound for ' ' participation." Ahke 
above the idea {e.g.^ the idea of man), and the phenomenon 
(e.^., the individual man), there must stand a thu'd common 
to both, and in which the two are united, «'.e., as Aristotle 
was in the habit of expressing this objection, the doctrine 
of ideas leads to the adoption of a " thu'd man." The result 
of this Aristotelian criticism is the immanence of the uni- 
versal in the individual. The method of Socrates in trjing 
to find the universal as the essence of the individual, and to 
give definitions according to conceptions was as correct (for 
no science is possible without the universal) as the theor}^ of 
Plato in exalting these universal conceptions to an independ- 
ent subsistence as real individual substances, was erroneous. 
Nothing universal, nothing which is a kind or a species, 
exists besides and separate from the individual ; a thing and 
its conception cannot be separated from each other. With 
these principles Aristotle hardly deviated from Plato's funda- 
mental idea that the universal is the only true being, and the 
essence of individual things ; it may rather be said that he 
has freed this idea from its original abstraction, and given 
it a more profound mediation with the phenomenal world. 
Notwithstanding his apparent contradiction to Plato, the fun- 
damental position of Aristotle is the same as that of his 
master, viz., that the essence of a thing {ro ri ia-nv, rb tl tjv 
etmc) is known and represented in the conception ; Aristotle 
however recognizes the universal, the conception, to be as 
little separated from the determined phenomenon as form 
from matter, and essence or substance {ova-La) in its most 
proper sense is, accordhig to him, only that which cannot be 
predicated of another, but of which every other may be pre- 
dicated ; it is that which is a this (roSe n) , the individual 
thing and not a universal. 



AEISTOTLE. 139 

(2) The four Aristotelian Principles or Causes, and the 
Relation of Form and Matter. — From the criticism of the Pla- 
tonic clocti'ine of ideas arose du-ectty the gi'oundwork of the 
Aristotelian sj^stem, the determinations of matter {vXrj), and 
form (etSos). Aristotle enumerates fom- metaphj^sical prin- 
ciples or causes : matter, form, eflScient cause, and end. In 
a house, for instance, the matter is the wood, the form is the 
conception of the house, the efficient cause is the builder, and 
the end is the actual house. These four determinations of 
all being resolve themselves upon a closer scrutiny into the 
fundamental antithesis of matter and form. The conception 
of the efficient cause is involved with the two other ideal prin- 
ciples of form and of end. The efficient cause is that which 
secm-es the transition of the incomplete actuality or poten- 
tiahty to the complete actuality, or induces the becoming of 
matter to form. But in everj' movement of the incomplete 
to the complete, the latter is the logical prius, the logical 
motive of the transition. The efficient cause of matter is 
therefore form. So is man the efficient cause of man ; the 
form of the statue in the understanding of the artist is the 
cause of the movement hj which the statue is produced ; 
health must be in the thought of the physician before it can 
become the efficient cause of convalescence ; so in a certain 
sense is medicine health, and the art of building the form of 
the house. But m the same way, the efficient or first cause 
is also identical with the final cause or end, for the end is the 
motive for all becoming and movement. The efficient cause 
of the house is the builder, but the efficient cause of the 
builder is the end to be attained, i.e., the house. From such 
examples as these it is seen that the determinations of form 
and end may be considered under one, in so far as both are 
united in the conception of actualit}' (evepyeta), for the end 
of every thing is its completed being, its conception or its 
form, the bringing out into complete actuality that which was 
potentially contained in it. The final cause of the hand is its 
conception, the final cause of the seed is the tree, which is at 



140 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. ' 

the same time the essence of the seed. The only fundamen- 
tal determinations, therefore, which cannot be wholly resolved 
into each other, are matter and foiTQ. 

Matter when abstracted from form in thought, Aristotle re- 
garded as that which is enthely without predicate, determi- 
nation, and distinction. It is that abiding thing which hes 
at the basis of all becoming ; but which in its own being is 
different from every thing which has become. It is capable 
of the widest diversit}^ of forms, but is itself without deter- 
minate form ; it is every thing in possibHit}^, but nothing in 
actuality. There is a first matter which lies at the basis of 
ever}^ determinate thing, precisel}^ as the wood is related to 
the bench and the marble to the statue. With this concep- 
tion of matter Aristotle prides himself upon ha^dng conquered 
the difficult}^ so frequentl}^ urged of explaining the possibility 
that an}' thing can become, since being can neither come out 
of being nor out of not-being. For it is not out of not-being 
absolutel}', but onl}^ out of that which as to actuality is not- 
being, but which potentiall}' is being, that an}' thing becomes. 
Possible or potential being is no more not-being than actual- 
it3\ Every existing object of nature is hence only a potential 
thing which has become actualized. Matter is thus a far 
more positive substratum with Aristotle than with Plato, who 
had treated it as absolutel}^ not-being. From this is clearly 
seen how Aristotle could apprehend matter in opposition to 
form as something positivel}' negative and antithetic to the 
form, and as its positive negation (a-Teprjcns) . 

As matter coincides with potentiality, so does form coin- 
cide with actualit}'. It is that which makes a distinguishable 
and actual ol)ject, a this (roSe tl) out of the undistinguished 
and indeterminate matter ; it is the peculiar virtue, the com- 
pleted activity, the soul of every thing. That which Aris- 
totle calls form, therefore, is not to be confounded with what 
Ave perhaps may call shape ; a hand severed from the arm, 
for instance, has still the outward shape of a hand, but ac- 
cording to the Aristotelian apprehension, it is only a hand 



AEISTOTLE. 141 

now as to matter and not in form : an actual hand, a hand m 
form, is only that which can do the proper work of a hand. 
Pure form is that which, in ti'uth, is without matter (to tC rjv 
etvat) ; or, in other words, the conception of being, the pure 
conception. But such pure form does not exist in the realm 
of determined being ; every determined being, ever}' indi- 
vidual substance (ovo-La), every thing which is a this, is rather 
a totahty of matter and form, a crvvoXov. , It is, therefore, owing 
to matter, that being is not pm-e form and pm-e conception ; 
matter is the gi'ound of the becoming, the manifold, and the 
accidental ; and it is this, also, which gives to science its 
limits. For in precisely the measm-e in which the individual 
thing bears in itself a material element is it incognizable. 
From what has been said, it follows that the opposition be- 
tween matter and form is a variable one, that being matter in 
one respect which in another is foim ; building- wood, e.g., is 
matter in relation to the completed house, but in relation to 
the unhewn tree it is form ; the soul in respect to the bod}' is 
form, but in respect to the reason, which is the foim of form 
(eTSo9 elSovi) is it matter. On this standpoint the totality of 
all existence ma}' be represented as a ladder, whose lowest 
step is a prime matter {irpdiTq vX-q) , which is not at all form, 
and whose highest step is an ultimate form which is not at all 
matter, but is pure form (the absolute, divine spirit). That 
which stands between these two points is in one respect mat- 
ter, and in another respect form, i.e., the former is ever trans- 
lating itself into the latter. This position, which lies at the 
basis of the Aristotelian ^iew of natm'e, is attained analyti- 
cally through the obsen^ation that all nature exhibits the per- 
petual and x^rogressive transition of matter into form, and 
shows the exhaustless and original gTOund of things as it 
comes to view in ever-ascending ideal formations. That all 
matter should become form, and all that is potential should 
be actual, and all that is should be known, is doubtless the 
demand of the reason and the end of all becoming ; yet is 
this actually impracticable, since Aristotle expressly afih-ms 



142 A HISTORY OP PHILOSOPHY. 

that matter as the antithesis, or negation of form, can never 
become wholh' actuahzed, and therefore can never be per- 
fectl}' known. The Aristotehan S3'stem ends thus hke its 
predecessors, in the unsubdued duahsm of matter and fonn. 

(3.) Potentiality and Actuality (Swa/xt? and cvepyaa). — 
The relation of matter to form, logically apprehended, is but 
the relation of potentialit}' to actualit}'. These terms, which 
Aristotle fii'st emplo3'ed according to then- philosophical sig- 
nificance, are x^vy characteristic of his S3'stem. We have in 
the movement of potential being to actual being the explicit 
conception of becoming, and in the four principles we have a 
distribution of this conception into its parts. The Aristote- 
lian system is consequent!}^ a sj'stem of the becoming, in 
which the Heraclitic principle appears again in a richer and 
profounder apprehension, as that of the Eleatics had done 
with Plato. Aristotle in this has made no insignificant step 
towards the subjection of the Platonic dualism. If matter is 
the iDossibiht}' of form, or reason becoming, then is the oppo- 
sition between the idea and the phenomenal world potentiaUj- 
overcome, at least in principle, since there is one being which 
appears both in matter and form onl}' in difl'erent stages of 
development. The relation of the potential to the actual 
Aristotle illustrates b}^ the relation of the unfinished to the 
finished work, of the unemplo3'ed carpenter to the one at work 
upon his building, of the individual asleep to him awake. 
Potcntiall}' the seed is the tree, but the grown-up tree is it 
actualh' ; the potential philosopher is he who is not at this 
moment in a philosophizing condition ; even before the battle 
the better general is the potential conqueror ; potentiall3' space 
is infinitel3' divisible ; in fact ever3' thing is potentiall3^ which 
possesses a principle of motion, of development, or of change, 
and which, if unhindered b3' an3' thing external, will be of 
itself. ActuaUt3' or cntelech3' on the other hand indicates the 
perfected act, the end as gained, the completely actual (the 
grown-up tree, e.{/., is the entclech3' of the seed), that ac- 
tivity in which the act and the completion of the act coincide. 



AEISTOTLE. 143 

e.g.^ seeing, tMnking (he sees and he has seen, he thinks and 
he has thought, are identical) , while in those activities which 
involve a becoming, e.g.^ to learn, to go, to become well, the 
two are separated. In this apprehension of form (or idea) 
as actuaht}' or entelechy, i.e., in joining it with the movement 
of the becoming, is found the chief antagonism of the Aris- 
totelian and Platonic s^'stems. Plato considers the idea as at 
rest, self-subsistent, and opposed to becoming and motion; 
but with Ai'istotle the idea is the eternal produqt of the be- 
coming, it is an eternal energy, i.e., an activit}' in complete 
actuaht}', it is not perfect being, but is being produced in 
every moment and eternall}', through the movement of the 
potential to its actual end. 

(4) The Absolute^ Divine Spirit. — Aristotle sought to es- 
tabhsh from a number of points of view, the conception of 
the absolute spmt, or as he calls it, the first mover, and espe- 
cially hj connecting it with the relation of potentiaht}' and 
actuality. 

(a) The Cosmological Form. — The actual is ever antece- 
dent to the potential not onl}' in conception (for I can speak 
of potentiahty onl}^ in reference to some activity) but also in 
time, for the possible becomes actual only through an acting ; 
the uneducated becomes educated thi'ough the educated, and 
this leads to the assumption of a first mover which is pure 
activit3\ Or, again, motion, becoming, or a chain of causes 
is possible onl}- through the prior existence of a principle of 
motion, a mover. But this principle of motion must be one 
whose essence is actuahty, since that which only exists in 
possibilit}" need not become actual, and therefore cannot be a 
principle of motion. All becoming postulates, thus, some- 
thing which is eternal and which has not become, which it- 
self unmoved is a principle of motion, a fii'st mover. 

(b) The Ontological Form. — In the same way it foUovrs 
from the conception of potentiality, that the eternal and 
necessary being cannot be potential. For that which poten- 
tially is, may just as well either be or not be ; but that which 



14J: A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

possibl}' is not, is temporal and not eternal. Nothing there- 
fore which is absolutely permanent, is potential, but only 
actual. Or, again, if potentialitj' be the first, nothing can 
exist : but this contradicts the conception of the absolute, 
which it is impossible should not be. 

(c) The Moral Form. — Potentialitj' always involves a 
possibilit}' of opposites. He who has the capacity to be well, 
has also the capacity to be sick, but actually no man is at the 
same time both sick and well. Therefore actuality is better 
than potentiality, and it alone can belong to the eternal. 

(d) So far as the relation of potentiality and actualit}' is 
identical with the relation of matter and form, we may appre- 
hend, in the following wa}', these arguments for the existence of 
a being which is pure actuality. The supposition of an abso- 
lute matter without form (the TrpoiT-q v\r}) involves also the 
supposition of an absolute form without matter (a Trpcorov 
€tSos) . And since the conception of form resolves itself into 
the tlu'ee determinations of the efficient, the intelligible, and 
the final cause, so is the eternal one the absolute principle of 
motion (the first mover, irpuirov xivovv) , the absolute notion or 
pure intelligible (the pure ri rjv eTmt), and the absolute end 
(prime good). 

All the other predicates of the first mover or the highest 
principle of the world, follow from these piemises with logical 
necessit}'. Unity belongs to him, since ihe ground of the 
manifoldness of being lies in matter and he has no participa- 
tion in matter ; he is immovable and abiding ever the same, 
since otherwise he could not be the absolute mover and the 
cause of all becoming ; he is life as active self-end and en- 
tclech}- ; he is at the same time intelligible and intelligence, 
because he is absolutely' immaterial and independent of na- 
ture ; he is active, i.e., thinking intelligence, because his 
essence is pure actualit}- ; he is self-contemplating intelli- 
gence, because the divine thought cannot attain its actualitj'^ 
in an}' tiling external, since if it were the thought of an}' thing 
other than itself, it would depend upon some potential exist- 



AKISTOTLE. 145 

ence for its actualization. Hence the famed Aristotelian defi- 
nition of the absolute that it is the thought of thought (vovyo-t? 
voTJo-ccos) , the personal unit}' of the thinking and the thought, 
of the knowing and the known, the absolute subject- object. 
In the MetapJiysic (XII. 1) we have a statement in order 
of these attributes of the Divine Spirit, and an almost devout 
sketch of the eternall}' blessed Deitj', knowing himself in his 
eternal tranquillitj' as the absolute truth, satisfied with him- 
self, and wanting neither in activit}' nor in any virtue. 

As would appear from this statement, Aristotle never fully 
developed the idea of his absolute spirit, and still less har- 
monized it with the fundamental princij)les and demands of 
his philosoph}', although many consequences of his S3'stem 
would seem to drive him to this, and numerous principles 
which he has laid down would seem to prepare the way for it. 
This idea is unexpectedl}^ introduced in the twelfth book of 
the Metaphysic simpl}' as an assertion, without being farther 
and inductivel}' substantiated. It is attended with important 
difficulties. We do not see why the ultimate ground of mo- 
tion or the absolute spirit must be conceived as a personal 
being ; we do not see how an}" thing can be a moving cause 
and yet itself unmoved ; how it can be the origin of all be- 
coming, that is of the departing and arising, and itself remain 
a changeless energ^T^ a principle of motion with no poten- 
tiality to be moved, for the moving thing must stand in a 
relation of passivity and activity with the thing moved. 
Moreover, Aristotle, as w^ould follow from these contradictory 
determinations, never thoroughly and consistently developed 
the relation between God and the world. He considered the 
absolute spuit only as contemplative and theoretical reason, 
from whom all action must be excluded because he is perfect 
end in himself, since every action presupposes an end not yet 
reaUzed; we have thus no true motive for his activity in 
reference to the world. He cannot be truly called the first 
mover in his theoretical relation alone, and since he is in his 
essence extra-mundane and unmoved, he cannot once per- 

r 



146 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

meate the life of the world with his activity, and since also 
matter on one side never rises wholly to form, we have, there- 
fore, here again the unreconciled duahsm between the Divine 
Spirit and the unmistakable reality of matter. Many of the 
arguments which Aristotle brings against the god of Anaxa- 
goras may be urged against his own theory. 

IV. The Aristotelian Physics. — The physics of Aris- 
totle, which embraces the greater portion of his writings, 
follows the becoming and the building up of matter into form, 
the successive stages through which nature as a living being 
progresses in order to become individual soul. All becoming 
has an end ; but end is form, and the absolute form is spirit. 
With perfect consistency, therefore, Aristotle regards the hu- 
man individual of the male sex as the end and the centre 
of earthly nature in its realized form. All else beneath the 
moon is, as it were, an unsuccessful attempt of natiu'e to pro- 
duce the male human, and is a superfluity which arises from 
the impotence of nature to subdue the whole of matter and 
bring it into form. Every thing which does not attain the 
universal end of nature must be regarded as incomplete, and 
is properly an exception or abortion. For instance, he calls 
it an abortion when a child does not resemble its father ; and 
the female child he looks upon as an abortion in a less de- 
gree, which he accounts for by the insufficient energy of the 
male as the forming principle. In general, Aristotle regards 
the female as imperfect in comparison with the male, an im- 
perfection which belongs in a higher degree to all the inferior 
animals. If nature did her work consciously, all these mis- 
takes, these incomplete and improper formations would be 
inexplicable, but she is an artist working only from an un- 
conscious impulse, and does not complete her work with a 
clear rational insight. 

1. The universal conditions of all natural existence, mo- 
tion, fi'pace, and time, Aristotle investigates in the books of 
physics. These physical conceptions may, also, be reduced 
to the metaphj'sical notions of potentiality and actuality ; 



AEISTOTLE. 147 

motiou is accordingly defined as the activity of potential be- 
ing, and is therefore a mean between the merely potential 
entit}^ and the perfectly realized actualit}^, — space is the 
possibility of motion, and possesses, therefore, potentially, 
though not actually, the property of infinite divisibility ; time 
is in the same way infinitely divisible, and, as expressing the 
measure of motion numerically, is the number of motion 
according to before and after. All three are infinite, but the 
infinite which is represented in them is onl}^ potentially but 
not actually a whole : it comprehends nothing, but is itself 
comprehended, — a fact mistaken by those who are accus- 
tomed to extol the infinite as though it comprehended and 
held every thing in itself, because it has some similarity to 
totality. 

2. From his conception of motion Aristotle derives his 
view of the collective universe^ as brought out in his books 
De Ccelo. The most perfect motion is the circular, because 
this is constant, uniform, and ever returning into itself. The 
world as a whole is therefore conditioned by the circular mo- 
tion, and being a whole complete in itself, it has a spherical 
form. But because the motion which returns into itself is 
better than every other, it follows, from the same ground, 
that in this spherical universe the better sphere wiU be in the 
circumference where the cu^cular motion is most perfect, and 
the inferior one will arrange itself around the centre of the 
universal sphere. The former is heaven, the latter earth, and 
between the two stand the planetary spheres. Heaven, as 
the place of circular motion, and the scene of unchangeable 
order, stands nearest the first moiang cause, and is under its 
immediate influence ; it consists not of perishable matter but 
of the finer element ether ; it is the place where the ancients, 
guided b}^ the correct tradition of a lost wisdom, have placed 
the Divine abode. Its parts, the fixed stars, are passionless, 
unalterable, and eternal essences, which, having attained the 
best end, must be conceived as existing in an eternal, tu-eless 
activit}^, and which, though not clearly cognizable, are yet 



148 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

much more dmue than man. A lower sphere, next to that 
of the fixed stars, is the sphere of the planets, among which, 
besides the five known to the ancients, he reckons the sun and 
the moon. This sphere stands a Httle removed from the most 
perfect : instead of moving direct!}' from right to left, as do 
the fixed stars, the planets move in contrary' du'ections and in 
oblique orbits ; the}' serve the fixed stars, and are ruled b}' 
theu' motion. Lastly, the earth is in the centi'e of the uni- 
verse, farthest removed from the first mover, and hence par- 
taking in the smallest degree of the Divine ; it is the sphere, 
— under the influence of the planets, and especiallj' of the 
sun, — of constant interchange of arising and departing, yet 
exhibiting thi-oughout this endless process a pictm-e of the 
eternit}' of heaven. There are thus three kinds of being, 
exhibiting three stages of perfection, necessary for the expla- 
nation of nature ; fii'st, the absolute spirit or God, an imma- 
terial being, who, himself unmoved, produces motion ; second, 
the super-terresti'ial region of the heavens, a being which is 
moved and which moves, and which, though not without mat- 
ter, is eternal and unchangeable, and possesses ever a cu'cular 
motion ; and, lastly, in the lowest course this earth, a change- 
ful being, which has onl}' to play the passive part of being- 
moved. 

3. Nature in a strict sense, the scene of elemental action, 
presents to us a constant and progiessive transition of the 
elementar}' to the vegetable, and of the vegetable to the ani- 
mal world. The lowest step is occupied by inanimate things, 
which are simple products of the union of the elements, and 
have their entelech}' onl}' in the determinate combinations of 
these elements, but whose energ}' consists onh' in striving 
after a place in the universe adapted to them, and in resting 
there so far as the}' reach it unhindered. But living bodies 
have no such merely external entelechy ; within them dwells 
a motion as organizing principle by which tliey attain to actu- 
alit}', and which as a preserving activity develops in them 
towards a perfected organization, — in a word they have a 



AEISTOTLE. 1-49 

soul, for a soul is the entelechy of an organic bod}'. In 
plants we find the soul working onl}^ as a consel•^^ng and nour- 
ishing energy : the plant has no other function than to nourish 
itself and to propagate its kind; among animals — where 
progi-ess is determined by their mode of reproduction — the 
soul appears as sensitive ; animals have sense, and ai-e capable 
of locomotion ; lasth', the human soul is at the same time 
nutritive, sensitive, and cognitive. 

4. Man, as the end of all nature, embraces in himself the 
different steps of development in which the life of nature is 
exhibited. The di^^sion of the faculties of the soul must 
therefore be necessarily regulated according to the division 
of livmg creatiu-es. As nutrition is the sole property of vege- 
tables, and sensation, of animals, while the more perfect 
animals are capable of locomotion, so are these thi*ee activi- 
ties also functions of the hmnan soul, the first being the 
necessar}' condition of, and presupposed b}', the other two ; 
while the soul itself is nothing other than the union of these 
different activities of an organic body in one common acti^dty 
dh-ected b}' design, as the entelechy of the organic bod}'. 
The soul is related to the body as form to matter ; it is its 
vital principle ; but for this very reason it cannot be con- 
cei^-ed to exist per se, apart from the bod}'. The fom'th 
faculty, thought or reason, which, added to the thi*ee others, 
constitutes the peculiarit}' of the human soul, forms alone an 
exception from the general law. It is not a simple product 
of the lower faculties of the soul, it does not stand related 
to them simpl}' as a higher stage of development, nor simpl}' 
as the soul to the bod}', as the end to the instrument, as 
actuality to possibility, as form to matter. But as pure in- 
tellectual activity, it perfects itself without the mediation of 
any bodily organ ; as the reason comes into the l3od}' from 
without it is independent of all connection with the functions 
of the body ; it is absolutely simple, immaterial, self-subsist- 
ent, — the divine in man ; it is also separable from the body. 
True, there exists a connection between thouo-ht and sensa- 



150 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

tion, for while the sensations are outwardl}^ divided, accord- 
ing to the different objects of sense, j'et internally they meet 
in one centre, as a common sense. Here the}' become 
changed into images and representations, whicii again become 
transmuted into thoughts, and so it might seem as if thought 
were only the result of the sensation, as if intelligence were 
passivel}^ determined ; hence Aristotle distinguishes between 
the reason as active and the reason as passive (receptive), the 
latter being onl}" graduall}" developed into cognition through 
reflection. (Here we might notice the proposition falsely 
ascribed to Aristotle : nihil est in intellectu quod nonfuerit in 
sensu^ and also the well-known though often misunderstood 
comparison of the soul with an unwritten tablet, whicli only 
implies this much, viz., that as the unwritten tablet is poten- 
tially but not actuall}^ a book, so does knowledge belong 
potentiall}' though not actually to the human reason ; funda- 
mentall}- and radicall}' thought -may have potentiallj^ in itself 
universal conceptions, in so far as it has the capacitj' to form 
them, but not actually nor in a determined or developed form) . 
But this passi-s'ity presupposes rather an activit}' ; for if the 
thought in its actuality, since it appears as knowledge, be- 
comes all forms and therefore all things, then must the 
thought constitute itself that which it becomes, and therefore 
all passively determined human intelligence rests on an origi- 
nall}' active intelligence, which exists as self- actualizing pos- 
sibilit}^ and pure actualit}', and which, as such, is wholl}^ 
independent of the human bod}', and has not its entelechy in 
it but in itself, and is not therefore participant in the death 
of the bod}', but lives on as universal reason, eternal and 
immortal. The Aristotelian dualism here again appears. 
Manifestly this active intelligence stands related to the soul 
as God to nature. The two sides possess no essential rela- 
tion to each other. As the Divine Spirit could not enter into 
the life of the world, so is the human spirit unable to per- 
meate the life of sense ; although it is determined as some- 
thing passionless and immaterial, still must it as soul be 



ARISTOTLE. 151 

connected with matter ; and although it is pure and self-con- 
templative form, still it should be distinguished from the 
Di^dne Spirit which is its counterpart ; the want of a satis- 
factory mediation on the side of the human and on that of 
the Divine, is unmistakable. 

V. The Aristotelian Ethics. 1. Relation of Ethics 
TO Physics. — Aristotle, guided by his tendency towards the 
natural, connected ethics and physics more closely than either 
of his predecessors, Socrates or Plato, had done. While 
Plato found it impossible to speak of the good in man's moral 
condition disconnected from the idea of the good in itself, 
Aristotle's principal object is to determine what is good for 
man solely ; and he supposes that the good in itself, the idea 
of the good, in no way facilitates the knowledge of that good 
which alone is attainable in practical life. It is onl}^ the lat- 
ter, the moral element in the life of men, and not the good in 
the great affairs of the universe, with which ethics has to do. 
Ai'istotle therefore considers the good especially in its rela- 
tion to the natural condition of men, and affirms that it is the 
end towards which nature herself tends. Instead of viewing 
the moral element as something purely intellectual, he rather 
apprehends it as only the bloom of the physical, which here 
becomes spiritualized and ethical ; instead of making vu-tue 
to be knowledge, he treats it as the normal perfection of 
natural instinct. That man is hy nature a political animal, 
is the fundamental proposition of his theoiy of the state. 

From this union of the ethical and the physical, arose the 
objections which Aristotle urged against the Socratic concep- 
tion of virtue. Socrates had placed the essence of virtue in 
an intellectual activit}^ superior to and dominant over sense, 
and had accordingl}^ made virtue and knowledge one. But 
in this, said Aristotle, the pathological element which is as- 
sociated by nature with every moral act, is destro3^ed. It is 
not reason, but the sensations, passions, and natural bias of 
the soul, without which no action is conceivable, which are 
the first ground of virtue. There is an instinct in the soul 



152 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

which at first strives unconsciousl}' after the good, which is 
onl}' subsequent^ sought with the full moral insight. Moral- 
it}' arises only from natural virtue. It is on this ground, 
also, that Aristotle combats the notion that virtue may be 
learned. It is not through the x^erfection of knowledge, but 
b}' exercise, that we become acquainted with the good. It is 
b}' a practice of virtue that we become virtuous, just as by a 
practice of building and of music we become architects and 
musicians ; for the habit which is the ground of moral con- 
stanc}', is onl}^ a fruit of the abundant repetition of a moral 
action. Accurate insight is indeed essential to the perception 
of the good and to the realization of it in particular acts ; in- 
sight, however, cannot make a virtuous will, but is rather 
itself conditioned b}^ the will, since a perverted will corrupts 
and misleads the judgment. It is by three things, therefore, 
nature, habit, and reason, that man becomes good. The 
standpoint of Aristotle is in these respects directly opposed 
to that of Socrates. While Socrates regarded the moral and 
the natural as opposites, and made moral conduct to be the 
result of rational enlightenment, Aristotle treated both as 
different steps of development, and reversing the order of 
Socrates, made rational enlightenment in moral things conse- 
quent upon moral conduct. 

2. The Highest Good. — Ever}" action has an end; but 
every end cannot be itself only a means to some other end ; 
there must rather be an ultimate, highest end, something 
after which we can strive for its own sake, and which is a 
good absolutely, or a best. Wliat now is this highest good 
and supreme object of human pursuit? In name, at least, all 
men are agi-eed upon it, and call it happiness, but what hap- 
piness is, is a much disputed point. If it be asked in what 
luiman happiness consists, the first characteristic given would 
l)e tliat it is something altogether peculiar to man's nature ; 
that it must consist in an activity which springs from this 
nature, and elevates it to a more perfect actuality, thereby 
inducing the feeling of complete satisfaction. But man's 



ABISTOTLE. 153 

peculiarity is not sensation, for he shares this with the brutes. 
A sensation of pleasure, therefore, which arises when some 
desire is gratified, may be the happiness of the brute, ])ut cer- 
tainl}^ does not constitute the essential of human happiness. 
That which is peculiarly human is rational activit}^ Man is 
by virtue of his nature and intelligence adapted to rational 
action, to the rational exercise of his natural faculties and 
jDOwers. This is his vocation and his happiness ; for to the 
activity itself, the unrestrained, successful exercise to which 
its nature compels it, is alwa3's the highest and best. Hap- 
piness, therefore, is a well-being, which is at the same time 
a well-doing, and it is a well-doing which satisfies all the 
conditions of nature, and which finds the highest contentment 
or well-being in an unrestrained energ}^ Activity- and pleas- 
ure are inseparably bound together by a natural bond, and 
happiness is the result of their union when they are sustained 
through a perfect life. Hence the Aristotelian definition of 
happiness. It is a perfect practical activit}^ in a perfect life. 
Although it might seem from this as though Aristotle 
placed the happiness of man in the natural activity of the 
soul, and regarded this as self-suflScient, still he is not blind 
to the fact that perfect happiness is dependent on other kinds 
of good whose possession is not absolutel}^ within oiu* power. 
It is true he expresses an opinion that outward things in 
moderation are sufficient, and that only great success or sig- 
nal reverses materiall}' influence the happiness of life ; still 
he holds that wealth, the possession of friends and children, 
noble birth, beaut}^ of body, etc., are more or less necessar}^ 
conditions of happiness, which is therefore parti}' dependent 
on accidental circumstances. This element in the Aristo- 
telian theory- of happiness springs naturally from his empiri- 
cal method of investigation. Careful in noting every thing 
which general experience seems to furnish, he expressly 
avoids making either virtue (rational activity) or pleasure 
his principle, because actual experience shows that each is 
conditioned by the other. He thus avoided the one-sidedness 



154 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

of later philosophers, who considered happiness to be alto» 
gether independent of externals. 

3. Conception of Virtue. — As has alread}' been seen 
in the Aristotelian Polemic against Socrates, virtue is the 
product of an ofb-repeated moral action, a condition acquired 
through practice, a moral dexterity of the soul. The nature 
of this dexterit}' is seen in the following wa}' : eveiy action 
accomplishes something as its work ; but if a work is imper- 
fect when it has either a want or a superfluit}", so also is 
eveiT action miperfect in so far as there is in it either too 
little or too much ; its perfection, therefore, consists in main- 
taining the due proportion, the true mean between too much 
and too little. Accordingl}', virtue in general maybe defined 
as the observance of the right mean in action ; by which is 
meant not the arithmetical or absolute mean, but the one 
relative to ourselves. For what is enough for one individual 
is insufficient for another. The virtue of a man, of a woman, 
of a child, and of a slave is respectively different. Thus, 
virtue depends upon time, cu'cumstance, and relation. The 
determination of this coiTcct mean will therefore always be 
doubtful. ■ An exact and exhaustive rule being impossible, 
we can onl}' say respecting it that it is a question of correct 
practical insight : f.e., that is the correct mean which is seen 
to be such b}" the intelligent man. 

It follows from tliis general conception of virtue, that there 
will be as many separate virtues as there are circumstances 
of life, and as men are ever entering into new relations, in 
which it becomes difficult practically to determine the correct 
method of action, Aristotle, in opposition to Plato, would 
limit the separate virtues by no definite number. Only in so 
far as there exist certain constant relations in human life, 
can certain fundamental virtues be named. For instance, 
man has a fixed relation to pleasure and pain. In relation 
to pain, the true moral mean is found in neither fearing nor 
courting it, and this is valor. In relation to pleasure, 
tlie true mean standing between greediness and indifference 



ARISTOTLE. 155 

is temperance. In social life, the moral mean is between 
doing and suffering 'v^Tong, which is justice. In a similar 
ViSLj man}^ other virtues might be characterized, each one of 
them standing as a mean between two vices, the one of which 
expresses a want and the other a superfluit}'. A closer ex- 
hibition of the Aristotelian doctrine of vu'tue would have 
much psychological and linguistic interest, though but little 
philosophical worth. Aristotle forms his conception of viitue 
more from the use of language than from a thoroughl}^ ap- 
plied x^rinciple of classification. His catalogue of the virtues 
of practical life is, thus, devoid of all systematic deduction 
and arrangement. His classification of the virtues into the 
ethical and dianoetic^ i.e., into those which relate to the pas- 
sions and affections, and those which relate to knowledge 
(practical and theoretical) is the most scientific. The latter 
class, since the}' are the virtues of the vo99, of that which is 
highest in man, are more elevated than the former. Wis- 
dom, Ocoipta, is the best and noblest ; and philosoph}^, or the 
life in wisdom, is supreme happiness. But it is precisely in 
this class of virtues that the rule that vu'tue is the correct 
mean between two extremes, cannot be apphed ; for the^^ ex- 
ist independent^, side by side, in the same duahstic relation 
which reason holds to the other faculties of the soul. 

4. The State. — The individual by himself, according to 
Ai'istotle, can attain neither \Titue nor happiness. Ethical 
cultm-e and moral activit}', as well as the attainment of the 
external means necessar}^ thereto, are conditioned thi'ough a 
regulated social life, within which the individual obtains edu- 
cation in the good, the protection of law, the assistance of 
others, and the opportunit}' for the practice of vutue. More- 
over, since man is b}- nature destined for societ}', since he is 
a political animal, a truly human life is possible only in a 
community. The state is thus superior to the individual, 
superior even to the famil}- ; individuals are only accidental 
parts of the political whole. Still, Aristotle is so far from 
adopting Plato's abstract apprehension of this relation, that 



156 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

he expressl}' controverts Plato's political theories. He agrees 
with Plato in believing that the prime object of the state is to 
make its citizens good men, to make human life perfect ; but 
he saw that this could not be accomplished by destroying the 
natural rights of the individual and the family, personal free- 
dom, and the distinction between meuiii and tuum. The 
state, he said, is not a unity, but is essentially a manifold of 
smaller communities and individuals. This fact the state 
must recognize, and must endeavor by means of its consti- 
tution and laws to make virtue and culture as general as 
possible, and to place political power in the hands of virtuous 
citizens. Of the different forms of government Aristotle pre- 
ferred the limited monarchy and aristocrac}' ; z.e., the state 
which is governed not by wealth nor bj- the mere majoritj', 
but by those citizens, who through the possession of a com- 
petency have received a careful education in morals, and 
are, thus, fitted to direct and govern the whole. That state 
is the best in which vii'tue, whether it be that of one man or 
of more, rules. Aristotle, however, does not advocate an}^ 
particular constitution as universall}' best. The question, he 
thinks, is not of an ideal state, but of what is most advisable 
under the given natural, climatic, geographic, economic, in- 
tellectual, and moral conditions. In this he is faithful to the 
character of his whole philosopll3^ Standing on the basis 
of the empirical, he advances here as elsewhere, critically and 
reflectivel}', and in despair of attaining the absolutel}^ true 
and good, he seeks for these relativel}^, with his ej'e fixed 
onl}^ on the probable and the practicable. 

VI. The Peripatetic School. — The school of Aristotle, 
called the Peripatetic, can here onl}^ be mentioned ; the want 
of independence in its philosophizing, and the absence of an}^ 
great and universal influence, rendering it unworthy an ex- 
tended notice. Tlieophrastus, Eudemus, and Strato are its 
most famous leaders. Like most pliilosophical schools, it 
confines itself chiefly to a more thorough elaboration and ex- 
planation of tlic system of its master. In some empirical 



ARISTOTLE. 157 

provinces, especially the phj^sical, the attempt was made to 
carry out still further the system, while at the same time its 
speculative basis was set aside and neglected. This view 
was most fully developed by Strato the physicist, who aban- 
doned the Aristotelian dualism between the intellectual and 
the natural principle of things, and declared nature to be the 
sole, all-producing and all-sustaining power of existence. 

VII. Transition to the Post- Aristotelian Philosophy. 
— The productive energy of Grecian philosophy expends it- 
self with Aristotle, contemporaneously and in connection with 
the universal decay of Grecian life and spirit. Instead of 
the great and universal S3'stems of a Plato and an Aristotle, 
we have now sj'stems of a partial and one-sided character, 
corresponding to that universal breach between the subject 
and the objective world which characterized the civil, relig- 
ious, and social life of this last epoch of Greece, the time 
succeeding Alexander the Great. That subjectivit}', which 
had been first propounded by the Sophists, was at length, 
after numerous struggles, victorious, though its triumph was 
gained upon the ruins of the Grecian civil and artistic life ; 
the individual has become emancipated from society and the 
state ; his unquestioning belief in the given world is wholly 
destroyed ; there remains only the problem of developing and 
satisfying a subjectivit}^ which has become autonomic and 
self-centred. This general intellectual movement of the age 
appears also in philosoph}'. It lost both its purely scientific 
and its pohtical interest ; it became a mean for the subject, 
by which he endeavored to procure what the deca3ing relig- 
ious life and morality of the state could no longer furnish, 
namel}', a philosophic conviction in reference to the highest 
religious, metaphysical, and ethical problems, — a fixed theory 
of life and action attained through free thought alone. Every 
thing, even logic and physics, was ^aewed from this practical 
standpoint ; the former afforded the subject a sure knowledge 
elevated above all disquieting doubts ; the latter was ex- 
pected to give the necessary explanations in reference to the 



158 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

ultimate grounds of all existence, of God, natui'e, and the 
constitution of man, whereb}' man might know his relations 
to all things, what he ought to hope or fear, and how his in- 
dividual happiness can be harmonized with the nature of 
things. In one respect, thus, the Post-AiistoteUan sj^stems 
indicate an intellectual advance. Thej' are in earnest with 
philosophy ; they would have it supplant reHgion and tradi- 
tion ; the}' would make it the truth of life, a faith, dogma, 
conviction, in accordance with which the subject must con- 
sistently' du'ect his life and action, and in which he must seek 
peace and fehcit}'. The result of this mode of thought was 
that men sought above all things certainty, ultimate knowl- 
edge ; they strove to arrive at some fixed ground ; the}' aban- 
doned the ti'anscendentahsm of the Platonic ideahsm, and the 
hj-pothetical philosophizing of Aristotle, and estabUshing 
themselves upon the realistic basis of immediate external and 
internal experience sought from thence to attain a theorj- of 
things which should be logicall}' developed and leave nothing 
undecided. In other words they sought to abolish the dual- 
ism of the Platonico- Aristotelian philosoph}', and finally solve 
the problem of reducing all the differences and antitheses of 
being, of subject and object, mind and matter, to one ulti- 
mate ground. Philosoph}' was to explain every thing ; no 
gap, uncertainty, halfness, should be allowed to remain. On 
the other hand, however, the Post -Aristotelian philosophy is 
wanting in true scientific devotion to tlie object ; it is a dog- 
matism which aims onl}' at truth for the subject and is there- 
fore one-sided ; it emphasizes not things nor thought, but the 
subjective consistency of thought. It sought to attain truth 
b}' the logical application of a single principle throughout the 
entire sphere of being. Hence there appeared in opposition 
to this dogmatism, and with equal positiveness, a scepticism 
which denied the possibilit}' of real knowledge, and developed 
the negative tendencies of the Sophistic and Megaric eristic 
to their extremest consequences. 
The most important system of the Post- Aristotelian period 



ABISTOTLE. 159 

is the Stoic. In it subjecti^dtj appears as universal, thinking 
subjectivity (c/. Sect. XI. 6) ; and this superioritj' of the uni- 
versalitj' of subjectivity, of thought, to every thing special 
and particular is its theoretical and practical principle. All 
particular existences are only the product of the universal 
reason which hves and acts in all things : the one universal 
reason is the essence of things. Hence the vocation of man 
is no other than to realize this universal subjectivity which is 
elevated above all ■\T.cissitude of ch'cumstance, and thus to 
seek his happiness not in external things and particular satis- 
factions, but in a hfe in harmony with nature and reason. A 
precisel}' opposite ^iew was advocated b}' Epicureanism. In 
it the subject withdraws itself into the individuality of pleas- 
ure, into the happiness of philosophic repose, enjojing the pres- 
ent, keeping itself fi-ee from all care and inordinate passion, 
and occuppng itself with the objective world onl}' so far as 
it is a means for the enjo}Tnent of its individuality. Scepti- 
cism coincides with these two systems in that it endeavors 
to render the subject indifferent to ever}^ thing external ; but 
it sought to attain this indifference negatively, by the renun- 
ciation of all definite knowledge and vohtion. 

Finally, this subjectivity is also exhibited b}' the last of 
the philosophical systems of antiquity, Neo-Platonism ; for 
it also makes the elevation of the subject to the absolute its 
corner-stone. For if, on the other hand, Neo-Platonism 
speculates objectively in reference to God and his relation 
to the finite, this speculation had its motive in the deske to 
demonstrate a continuous transition from the absolute object 
to human personality. The predominant influence, therefore, 
even here, is the interest of subjectivit}' ; and the greater 
wealth of objective determinations was gi'ounded upon the 
fact that subjectivity had been expanded into absoluteness. 



160 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 



SECTION XVII. 

STOICISM. 

Zeno, the founder of tlie Stoic school, was bom about 340 
B.C., in Citium, a cit}' of Cj^rus. He was not of piu-e 
Greek, but of Phoenician extraction. Deprived of his prop- 
ei-t}^ b}' shipwi-eck, he took refuge in philosophy, incited also 
by an inner bias to such pursuits. He at first became a dis- 
ciple of the Cj'nic Crates, then of Stilpo, one of the Mega- 
rians, and lastly he betook himself to the Academy, where he 
heard the lectures of Polemo. After twenty years had been 
occupied in this wa}", having become convinced of the neces- 
sit}' of a new philosoph}^, he opened a school at Athens, in 
the "variegated porch," so called from the paintings of 
Polj'gnotus, with which it was adorned, whence his adher- 
ents received the name of " philosophers of the porch " (Sto- 
ics) . Zeno is said to have presided over his school for fifty- 
eight years, and at a very advanced age to have put an end 
to his existence. He was praised b}' the ancients for the 
temperance and the austerity of his habits, while his ab- 
stemiousness is proverbial. The monument in his honor, 
erected after his death b}' the Athenians, at the instance of 
Antigonus, l)ore the high but simple eulogium that his life 
had been in unison with his philosoph}'. Cleanthes of Assos, 
in Asia Minor, was the successor of Zeno in the Stoic school, 
and fiiithfuUy carried out the method of his master. Clean- 
thes was succeeded by Chrysippus (born at Soli, in Cihcia) , 
who died al)out 208 b.c. He has been regarded as the chief 
support of the school ; so much so, indeed, that it was said 
of him, that without a Clirysippus there never would have 
been a Stoa. At all events, as Chrysippus was an object of 
the greatest veneration, and of almost undisputed authority 
with the later Stoics, he ought to be considered as the princi- 



STOICISM. 161 

pal founder of the school. He was a writer so voluminous, 
that his works have been said to amount to seven hundred 
and five, among which, however, were repeated treatises 
upon the same propositions, and citations without measure 
from poets and historians, given to prove and illustrate his 
opinions. Not one of all his writings has come down to us. 
Chiysippus closes the series of the philosophers who founded 
the Stoic school. The later heads of the school, as Pancetius, 
the friend of the j'ounger Scipio (his famous work De Offidis, 
Cicero has elaborated in his treatise of the same name), and 
Posidonius, ma}' be classed with Cicero, Pompeius, and 
others, and were eclectic in then- teachings. The Stoics con- 
nected philosophy most intimately with the duties of practical 
life. Philosophy is with them the practice of wisdom, the 
exercise of virtue, the training-school of vhtue, the science 
of those principles in accordance with which a vktuous life 
must be guided. They asserted all science, art, culture, in 
so far as they are sought for their own sake to be super- 
fluous ; man should strive for nothing but wisdom, the knowl- 
edge of things human and divine, and should govern his life 
b}^ this alone. Logic supplies the method for attaining true 
knowledge; ph3'Sics comprehends the theor}- of nature and 
the order of the universe ; ethics deduces from these those 
consequences which relate to practical life. 

1. Logic. — The feature most worthy of notice in their 
logic, is the striving after a subjective criterion of truth, by 
wliich they might accm-ately distingTiish true conceptions from 
false. All knowledge, accorchng to the Stoics, originates in 
real unpressions of external things upon the senses, in objec- 
tive sensuous experiences, which are combined into concep- 
tions by the understanding ; knowledge comes not from the 
subject but from the object ; this is the gimmd of its truth. 
Since, however, it is possible that representations of the 
subjective imagination may insinuate themselves among the 
true conceptions which are produced in us by external things, 
the question arises, how shall we distingaiish them, how sep- 



162 A mSTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

arate the false from the true? The criterion for this is the 
irresistible evidence, the strength of conviction with which 
the idea impresses itself upon the mind. Whenever a con- 
ception possesses this evidence, when it compels the mind 
involuntarily to recognize its validity, it may be assumed to 
be no mere figment of the imagination but the product of a 
real object. Other criterion than this "striking evidence" 
of a conception there is none since we know things only by 
means of conceptions. The Stoic theor}^ of knowledge is thus 
a mean between empiricism and idealism. Sensuous expe- 
rience alone is certain ; but whether any thing is actuall}^ per- 
ceived is decided only by the irresistible subjective conviction 
of truth which a perception brings with it. 

2. Physics. — In their physics, where they follow for the 
most part Heraclitus, the Stoics are distinguished from their 
predecessors, especially from Plato and Aristotle, by their 
thoroughly carried out proposition that nothing uncorporeal 
exists, that every thing essential is corporeal (just as in their 
logic the}^ sought to derive all knowledge from the sensuous 
perception). This sensualism or materialism of the Stoics 
which, as we have seen in their logic, lies at the basis of their 
theory of knowledge, might seem foreign to all their moral 
and idealistic tendencies, but is clearly explained by their 
dogmatic standpoint ; an ideal being is, for them, not objec- 
tive, substantial enough ; the relations and activities of things 
are ideal, but things themselves must have corporeal reality. 
In the same wa}' it seemed to them impossible that there can 
be any interaction between the ideal and corporeal, between 
the spiritual and the material. Reciprocity can exist only 
between things which are like in kind ; mind, the deity, the 
soul, are thus corporeal though different from the body and 
from matter. The most immediate consequence of this 
attempt to destroy the duality- of mind and matter is their 
pantheism. Aristotle before them had separated the Divine 
Being from the world, as the pure and eternal form from the 
eternal matter ; Ijut so far as this separation implied a dis- 



STOICISM. 163 

tlnction which was not simply logical, but actual and real, 
the Stoics would not admit it. It seemed to them impossible 
to dissever God from matter, and they therefore considered 
God and the world in the relation of power and its manifes- 
tation, and thus as one. Matter is the passive ground of 
things, the original substratum for the divine activity : God 
is the active and formative energy of matter dwelling within 
it, and essentially united to it : the world is the body of God, 
and God is the soul of the world. The Stoics, therefore, 
considered God and matter as one identical substance, which, 
on the side of its passive and changeable capacity they call 
matter, and on the side of its active and changeless energy, 
God. The world has no independent existence, it is not 
self-subsistent finite being, but is produced, animated, and 
governed by God. It is a living thing (^wov) of which the 
Deity is the rational soul. Every thing in it is equally di- 
vine since the divine power pervades all things alike. God 
exists in it as the eternal necessity which directs all things in 
accordance with unalterable law ; as the rational Providence 
which brings all things into harmony with its designs ; as the 
perfect wisdom which maintains the order of the world, com- 
mands and rewards the good, and forbids and punishes the 
evil. Nothing in the world can isolate itself, or overstep its 
natural limitations ; but each is unconditionally connected 
with the order of the whole whose principle and power is 
God. Thus even in the physics of the Stoics is displayed 
that stern regard for law which is the chief characteristic of 
their philosophy : they are, hke Heraclitus, the sworn ene- 
mies of all arbitrariness and individuality. This principle of 
the unity of all being connects them in yet another way with 
Heraclitus. They apprehended the being of God, which 
according to then* philosophical principles must be corporeal, 
just as he did, i.e., as a fiery, heat-giving force, which is the 
life of the world, and into which all individual lives are 
merged in order to be renewed under new forms, and so on 
ad infinitum {cf. Sect. VII. 8) . At one time they call God 



164 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the rational breath which passes tlu'ough all nature ; at an^ 
other, the artistic fire which fashions or begets the universe ; 
and still again the ether, which, however, the}' hardl}- distin- 
guish from the fire. This identification of God and the world, 
according to which the Stoics regarded the whole formation 
of the universe as but the development of God, renders their 
remaining doctrine concerning the world ver}^ simple. All 
the world seemed to them to be vitalized b}^ the divine life, 
coming into special existence out of the divine whole, and 
returning into it again, thus forming a necessary c^^cle of 
origination and destruction in which the whole alone is per- 
manent and eternally renewed. On the other hand, nothing 
within this whole is in vain, nothing is without an end ; in 
ever}' thing actual there is reason. Even the bad (within cer- 
tain limits) is necessar}^ to the perfection of the whole, since 
it is the condition of virtue: e.g.., injustice is the condition 
of justice. The world taken as a whole could have been no 
better than it is or more suited to its purpose. 

3. The Ethics. — The ethics of the Stoics is most closely 
connected with their ph3'sics. In the phj^sics was demon- 
strated the rational order of the universe as it exists through 
the divine thought. In the ethics, the highest law of human 
action, and thus the whole moral governance of life, is made 
to depend upon this rational order and conformit}' to law in 
universal nature, and the highest good, or the highest end of 
our strivings, is to shape our life according to this universal 
law, to live ni conformit}' with the harmony of the world or 
with nature. "Follow nature," or "live in harmony with 
nature," is the moral maxim of the Stoics. More accuratel}^ : 
live in harmony with thy rational nature so far as this has 
not been distorted or corrupted b}' art, but is held in its nat- 
ural simplicity ; be consciously and voluntarily what thou art 
by nature, a rational part of a rational universe ; be reason 
and in reason, instead of following unreason and thine own 
ar))itrary desires. Herein consists thy vocation, herein thy 
felicity, since in this wa}^ thou avoidcst ever}^ thing which ia 



STOICISM. 165 

in contradiction with th}' nature and the order of things with- 
out thee, and securest for thyself a calmly flowing, undis- 
turbed life. 

From this moral principle, in which the Stoic conception 
of virtue is also expressed, the peculiarities of their theory 
of morals follow with logical necessity. 

(1) Respecting the Relation of Virtue to Pleasure. — The 
demand that life should be in conformity with nature subor- 
dinates the individual wholly to the universal, and excludes 
every personal end. Hence pleasure, which of all ends is the 
most individual, must be disregarded. Pleasure, as the abate- 
ment of that moral energ}^ of the soul, wherein all blessedness 
consists, could appear to the Stoics only as a hindrance to 
life, and therefore as an evil. Pleasure is not in conformity 
with nature, and is no end of nature, says Cleanthes ; and 
though other Stoics relax a little the strictness of this opin- 
ion, and admit that pleasure may be according to nature, and 
is to be considered in a certain degree as a good, yet they all 
held fast to the doctrine, that it has no moral worth and is 
no end of nature, but is onl}' something which is accidentally 
connected with the free and fitting activity of nature, while 
itself is not an activity-, but a passive condition of the soul. 
In this lies the whole severity of the Stoic doctrine of morals ; 
every thing personal is cast aside, every external end of action 
is foreign to morality ; wise action is the onty true aim. From 
this follows directly : 

(2) The Vieio of the Stoics Concerning External Good. — 
Virtue, as the sole aim of a rational being, is also his sole 
blessedness, his only good ; since onty inner rationality and 
strength of mind, a will and activity in harmony with nature, 
can make man happy and afford him a counterpoise to the 
accidents and restrictions of his outward life. From this it 
clearly follows that external goods, health, wealth, etc., are 
altogether indifferent: they add nothing to the rationality, 
force, and greatness of the soul ; they can be used either 
rationally or u-rationally, and in the end are as likely to prove 



166 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

ex'ii as good. They are, therefore, not really good ; virtue 
alone is advantageous. The loss of external possessions 
does not affect the happiness of the virtuous. Even the so- 
called external evils are not evils ; the only evil is baseness, 
which is both unnatural and irrational. The Stoics differ 
from their predecessors, the Cynics, inasmuch as they admit 
that there may be a distinction among indifferent things ; that 
while none of these can be called a moral good, yet some may 
be preferable to others, and that the preferable, so far as it 
contributes to a life in conformity to nature, should enter into 
the account of a moral life. Thus the sage will prefer health 
and wealth when these are balanced in the choice with sickness 
and poverty, but though these objects have been rational^ 
chosen, he does not esteem them as reall}' good, for they are 
not the highest, they are inferior to virtuous action, in com- 
parison with which ever}^ thing else sinks to insignificance. 
In making this distinction between the good and the prefer- 
able, we see how the Stoics exclude from the good every thing 
relative, and hold fast to it alone in its highest significance. 

(3) This abstract apprehension of the conception of virtue 
is still farther A^erified in the rigid antagonism which the Stoics 
affirmed between virtue and vice. Virtue is reasonableness, 
— right action in harmony with the nature of things ; vice is 
unreason, perversit}^, which is in contradiction to nature and 
truth. Either, they argue, the actions of a man are rational 
and uncontradictory or the}^ are not. In the first case the 
man is good ; in the second, even though his act is but 
slightl}' opposed to reason and nature, he is bad. He alone 
is good who is perfectly good ; but he is bad who is in any 
degree irrational or vicious : e.g., whoever yields to a desire, 
affection, passion, or commits a fault. Between virtue and 
vice there is no mean, no point of transition, an}' more than 
between truth and falsehood. Fi'om this the Stoics concluded 
tliat a perfectly moral act is possible only when the actor is 
altogether virtuous, i.e., has a perfect knowledge of the good 
and the power to completely realize it. Virtue must be pos- 



STOICISM. 167 

sessed wholly or not at all : the virtuous man must therefore 
be absolutely virtuous. To this may be added the farther 
paradox of the Stoics, — all good actions are equally right 
and equally good ; all bad actions are equall}- faulty and 
therefore equally bad ; there are no degrees of goodness and 
badness, virtuousness and viciousness, but the two are abso- 
lutely antithetical. The Stoics on this point conceded only 
that legal acts which are in substantial accordance with the 
law of Adrtue but have not perfect virtue for theu- source, are 
intermediate between the good and the bad but have no moral 
worth. 

(4) The Special Doctrine of Ethical Action was most 
completely developed b}^ the later Stoics, who were thus the 
founders of deontology. Virtue, according to the Stoics, 
consists in absolute coiTectness of judgment, in the soul's 
perfect control of pain, in its complete dominion over pleasure 
and desire, and in the absolute justice which estimates every 
thing in accordance with its worth in the universe. They 
divided duties into two classes, duties to self, and duties to 
others. The former relate to rational self-preservation and 
the avoidance of all that contradicts natui-e and reason ; the 
latter to those relations of the individual to society which 
must be directed by man's social nature, and in which all the 
claims of justice and humanity toward others must be satis- 
fied. The state is likewise a result of man's political nature. 
But the division of mankind into hostile peoples and states 
is a contradiction of human nature ; the whole human race 
should form one great community with equal laws and equal 
rights. The Stoics, thus, originated the idea of cosmopoli- 
tism. 

The Stoic teachings conclude with the picture of the ivise 
man^ — the ideal tj^pe of virtue in its completest realization, 
which with its attendant subjective blessedness is set forth 
as a model and pattern for action. The wise man is he who 
actually possesses true knowledge of divine and human things, 
as well as the absolute moral insio-ht and streno'th which flow 



168 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

from it, and thus unites in himself all conceivable human 
perfections. The more special application of this thought 
appears paradoxical since such absolute perfection does not 
harmonize with the conception of individualit}^ The Stoics, 
however, valued it most highl}^ precisely because the eleva- 
tion of the indiA'idual to pure and perfect virtue is the postu- 
late which supports then- entire theory of ethics, and espe- 
ciall}^ distinguishes it from the Aristotelian, which requires 
only isolated and relative virtues. The wise man, they said, 
knows ever}' thing, and understands every thing better than 
any other because he possesses a perfect mind and the 
knowledge of the true nature of things. He alone is the 
true statesman, lawgiver, orator, educator, critic, poet, ph}- 
sician ; while the unwise man remains ever rude and uncul- 
tured, even though he possesses gi'eat knowledge. The wise 
man is unerring and faultless, since he always acts rationally, 
and thinks all things in their rational connection ; for this 
reason he fears and wonders at nothing, he is guilt}^ of no 
weakness or passion. He alone is a true companion, neigh- 
bor, kinsman, and friend, because he alone perfectly knows 
and fulfils the duties which spring from these relations. 
Moreover, the wise man, since he has the good as a law 
within himself, is free from all subjection to external law and 
tradition ; he is lord of his own actions and responsible to 
himself alone. No less is he by his character and virtue free 
in reference to all vocations and modes of life ; he can move 
in an}' sphere. He is rich because he can obtain all that he 
needs and dispense with all that he lacks. He is joyous 
under all circumstances because in his virtue he has an ever 
present source of blessedness. But on the other hand all the 
external and internal goods which the unwise think they 
have, they in reality do not possess, since they lack the fun- 
damental condition of true blessedness, — perfection of soul. 
In tliis thought, that inner moral integrity of mind is the 
necessary basis of all qualification for action and of all true 
happiness, lies tlie truth of this ideal of the Stoics. It also 



EPICUREANISM. 169 

exhibits the abstraction in which their whole system is in- 
volved ; this wisdom is an empty ideal which as even the 
Stoics themselves admitted has no reality ; it is a general 
conception of perfection which is inapplicable to life, and thus 
shows that the Stoics, in general, adopted a one-sided princi- 
ple, the universality of subjectivity. The subject instead of 
being, as formerly, a mere accident of the state, was now to 
become absolute ; but as a result of this his own reality 
vanishes in the clouds and mist of an abstract ideal. The 
merit of the Stoic philosophy, however, is that in an age of 
social ruin it held fast to the moral idea, and by separat- 
ing politics from morals, estabhshed the latter as an inde- 
pendent science. 



SECTION XVIII. 

EPICUEEANISM. 

The Epicurean school arose almost contemporaneously 
with the Stoic, though p)erhaps a little earlier. Epicm-us, its 
founder, the son of an Athenian who had emigTated to Samos, 
was born 342 B.C., six j^ears after the death of Plato. Of his 
youth and education little is known. In his thirtj'-sixth j'ear 
he opened a philosophical school at Athens, over which he 
presided till his death, 270 b.c. His disciples and adherents 
formed a society, in which the}^ were united by the closest 
friendship, illustrating the general condition of things in 
Greece after the time of Alexander, when the social took 
the place of the decaying political life. Epicurus himself 
compared his society to the Pythagorean fraternity, although 
the community- of goods, which forms an element in the lat- 
ter, Epicurus excludes, affirming that true friends can confide 

in one another. The moral character of Epicurus has been 
8 



170 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

repeatedly assailed, but, according to the testimony of the 
most reliable witnesses, his life was blameless in every re- 
spect, and his personal character was estimable and amiable. 
Moreover, it cannot be doubted that much of that, which is 
told by some, of the offensive voluptuousness of the Epicu- 
rean band, should be regarded as calumny. Epicurus was a 
voluminous writer, surpassing, in this respect, even Aristotle, 
and exceeded by Chrysippus alone. To the loss of his greater 
works he has himself contributed, by his practice of com- 
posing summaries of his s^^stem, which he recommended his 
disciples to commit to memory. These summaries have been 
for the most part preserved. 

The end which Epicurus proposed to himself in science is 
distinctly revealed in his definition of philosophy. He calls 
it an activity which, by. means of conceptions and arguments, 
procures the happiness of life. Its end is, therefore, with 
him essentially^ a practical one, and on this account the object 
of his whole system is to produce a scheme of morals which 
should teach us how we may certainly attain a happy life. 
It is true that the Epicureans adopted the usual division of 
philosoph}" into logic (which they called canonics), physics, 
and ethics ; but they confined logic to the determination of 
the criterion of truth, and considered it only as an instrument 
and introduction to physics, while they treated ph3'Sics as 
entirely subordinate to ethics, and necessary only in order to 
free men from superstitious fear, and deliver them from the 
power of fables and mythical fancies concerning nature, which 
might hinder the attainment of happiness. We have there- 
fore in Epicureanism the three ancient divisions of philoso- 
phy, but in a reversed order, since logic and ph3'sics are 
here made ancillary to ethics. We shall confine ourselves in 
our exposition to the latter, since the Epicurean canonics and 
physics have little scientific interest, and since the ph3'sics 
c.si)ecialh' is not onl}' very incomplete and without any inter- 
nal connection, but rests entirely upon the atomic theory of 
Democritus. 



EPICUEEANISM. 171 

Epicurus, like Aristotle and the other philosophers of his 
day, placed the highest good in happiness, or a happy life. 
Happiness, however, in his opinion, consists solely in pleas- 
ure : virtue has no value in itself but only in so far as it in- 
creases our enjoyment, — renders life agreeable. But Epicurus 
goes on to give a more accurate determination of pleasure, 
and in this he differs essentially from his predecessors, the 
CjTenaics (c/. Sect. XIII. 3.) 

1. While with Aristippus the pleasure of the moment is 
made the end of human effort, Epicurus directs men to strive 
after a system of pleasures which will insure a permanent 
condition of happiness for the whole life. True pleasure is 
thus the object to be considered and weighed. Many a pleas- 
ure should be despised because it will result in pain, and 
many a pain should be rejoiced in because it will lead to a 
greater pleasure. 

2. Since the sage will seek after the highest good, not 
simpl}^ for the present but for his whole life, he wiU hold the 
pleasures and pains of the soul, which like memory and hope 
extend to the past and the future, in greater esteem than 
those of the body, which relate only to the present moment. 
The pleasure of the soul consists in the untroubled tranquil- 
lity of the sage, who rests secure in the feeling of his inner 
worth and his exaltation above the strokes of destin}^ Thus 
Epicurus would say that it is better to be miserable but 
rational than to be happy and irrational, and that the wise 
man might be happy though in torture. He would even affirm, 
like a true follower of Aristotle, that pleasure and happiness 
were most closely connected with virtue, that virtue is in fact 
inseparable from true pleasure, and that there can be no 
agreeable life without virtue, and no virtue without an agree- 
able life. On the same grounds he declares that friendship, 
which the C;yTenaics thought to be superfluous, is a chief 
means of happiness ; and it is such, in so far as it is an 
enduring, life-gladdening, and beautifying union of congenial 
minds, and gives a happiness more lasting than any which 
sensuous enjoyment can afford. 



172 A HISTOHY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

3. While other Hedonists regarded the most positive and 
intense feeling of pleasure as the highest good, Epicurus, 
on the other hand, fixed his e3'e on a happiness which should 
be abiding and for the whole life. He would not seek the 
most exquisite enjo3Tnents in order to attain to a happy life, 
but he rather recommends one to be satisfied with little, and 
to practise sobriety and temperance of life. He guards him- 
self against such a false application of his doctrine as would 
impl}' that the pleasure of the debauchee is the highest good, 
and boasts that with a little barle3'-bread and water he would 
rival Zeus in happiness. He even expresses an aversion for 
all costl}' pleasures, not, however, in themselves, but because 
of the evil consequences which they entail. True, the Epi- 
curean sage need not therefore live as a Cynic. He will 
enjoy himself where he can without harm, and will even seek 
to acquire means to live with dignit}^ and ease. But though 
all these enjoj'ments of life ma}- properl}^ belong to the sage, 
3'et he can deprive himself of them without misery — though 
he ought not to do so — since he enjoys the truest and most 
essential pleasure in the calmness of his soul and the tran- 
quillity of his heart. In opposition to the positive pleasure 
of some Hedonists, the theory of Epicurus expends itself in 
negative conceptions, representing that freedom from pain is 
pleasure, and that hence the activity of the sage should be 
prominently directed to the avoidance of that whicli is dis- 
agreeable. All tliat man does, says Epicurus, he does in 
order that he may neither sufier nor fear pain ; if he attains 
this, nature is satisfied. Positive gratifications can never in- 
crease pleasure, but only complicate it. Happiness is thus, 
according to Epicurus, simple and easily attained if we will 
but follow nature, and not ruin and imbitter life itself by in- 
ordinate demands and a foolish fear of fancied evils. Among 
the evils which man fears, death holds the first place. But 
it is no evil not to live. ITonce death, for which men have 
the greatest terror, the wise man does not fear. For while 
we live, death is not, and when death is, we are not ; when 



SCEPTICISM AXD THE XEW ACADEMY. 173 

it is present we feel it not, for it is the end of all feeling, 
and that, which by its presence cannot affect our happiness, 
ought not to trouble us when thought of as future. The Epi- 
cui-ean doctrine thus results in the pureh' subjective endeavor 
of the indi^ddual to find rest and satisfaction in existence ; it 
knows nothing of man's moral nature, but it has, so far as is 
possible, ennobled the ancient conception of pleasure. 

Epicurus's view of the universe is completed by his doc- 
trine of the gods, to whom he apphed his ideal of happiness. 
To the gods belongs a human form, though without any fixed 
body or human wants. In the void "spaces between the infi- 
nite worlds the}' lead an undisturbed and changeless life, 
whose happiness is incapable of increase. From the blessed- 
ness of the gods he inferred that thej' can have nothing to 
do with the management of our aflTairs ; for blessedness is 
repose. They trouble neither themselves nor others ; and 
therefore thej' need not be objects of superstitious, life-dis- 
tm'bing fear. These inactive gods of Epicm-us, these inde- 
structible but unstable forms, these bodies which are not 
bodies, have but httle connection with the rest of his system ; 
but even here he is thinking of the happiness of man ; the 
thought of the gods is robbed of all its teiTors, yet retained 
in a modified form which serves to estabhsh rather than 
refute the Epicurean theorj' of happiness. 



SECTION XIX. 

SCEPTICISM AXD THE XE^ ACADE:\IY. 

This subjective dnection was carried out to its farthest 
extent by the Sceptics, who broke down completeh' the 
bridge between subject and object, denying all objective 
truth, knowledge and science, and wholly withdrawing the 
philosopher from every thing but himself and his own subjec- 



174 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

tive estimates. In this direction we may distinguish between 
the old Scepticism, the new Academy, and the later Scepti- 
cism. 

1. The old Scepticism. — PyrrJio of Elis, a cotemporar}^ 
of Aristotle, was the head of the old Sceptics. He left no 
writings behind him, and all our knowledge of his opinions 
is derived from his disciple and follower, Timon of Phlius. 
The tendency of these sceptical philosophers, like that of the 
Stoics and Epicureans, was a practical one, for philosophy, 
said the}', ought to lead us to happiness. But in order to 
live happily we must know how things are, and, therefore, 
how we are related to them. The first of these questions the 
Sceptics answered b}^ attempting to show that we do not per- 
ceive things as they actually are, but only as they appear to 
us ; our representations of them are neither true nor false ; 
nothing definite can be predicated of any thing. Neither our 
senses nor our opinions concerning any thing teach us any 
truth ; to every precept and to ever}- position a contrary may 
be advanced ; hence the contradictory views of men, and 
especially of the philosophies of the schools respecting one 
and the same thing. All objective knowledge and science 
being thus impossible, the true relation of the philosopher to 
things consists in the entire suspension of judgment, and the 
withholding of every positive assertion. In order to avoid 
ever}' thing like a positive assertion, the Sceptics had recourse 
to a variety of artifices, and availed themselves of doubtful 
modes of expression, such as it is possible ; it may he so; 
perhaps; I assert nothing, — cautiously subjoining to this last 
— not even that I assert nothing. By this suspension of 
judgment the Sceptics thought they could attain their practi- 
cal end, happiness ; for the abstinence from all positive opin- 
ion is followed by a freedom from all mental disturbance, as 
a substance is l)y a shadow. He who has embraced Scepti- 
cism lives thenceforward tranquilly, without inquietude, with- 
out agitation, in a mere apathy which excludes both the 
knowledge of good and of evil. Pyrrho is said to have 



SCEPTICISM AND THE NEW ACADEMY. 175 

originated the doctrine which Ues at the basis of sceptical 
apathy, viz., that there is no difference between sickness and 
health, or between life and death. The Sceptics, for the most 
part, derived the material for their theory from the previous 
investigations and polemic of the dogmatic schools. But the 
grounds on which they rested were far from being profound, 
and were for the most part either dialectic errors which could 
easily be refuted, or mere subtleties. The use of the follow- 
ing ten tropes is ascribed to the old Sceptics, though these 
were perhaps not definitely brought out by either Pyrrho or 
Timon, but were probably first collected by ^nesidemus, soon 
after the time of Cicero. The withholding of all decisive 
judgment may rest; (1) upon the diflferences of conception 
and sensation generally existing among individual living 
beings ; (2) upon those physical and intellectual differences 
between men which cause them to view the same thing in dif- 
ferent lights ; (3) upon the varying testimony of sense itself, 
and the uncertainty whether the organs of sense are compe- 
tent ; (4) upon the circumstances under which objects ap- 
pear ; (5) upon their relative positions, intervals, and places ; 
(6) upon the fact that w^e know nothing directly, but only 
through some extraneous medium (air, etc.) ; (7) upon the 
fact that our impressions of the same thing vary in quantity, 
temperature, color, motion, etc. ; (8) upon the dependence 
of our conceptions upon custom, since that which is new and 
strange affects us differently from that which is familiar ; (9) 
upon the relativity of all our conceptions, which is based upon 
the fact that predicates express merely the relations of things 
one to another, or to our faculty of representation ; (10) 
upon the different ways of life, the varieties of customs and 
laws, the mythical representations and dogmatic opinions of 
men. 

2. The New Academy. — Scepticism, in its conflict with 
the Stoics, as it appeared in the Platonic school established 
by ^rcesi7aws (316-241), has a far greater significance than 
belongs to the performances of the Pyrrhonists. In this 



176 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

school Scepticism sought to support itself by its great re- 
spect for the wi'itings and the traditions of the oral teachings 
of Plato. Arcesilaus could neither have assumed nor re- 
tained the chair of instruction in the Academy, had he not 
carefully cherished and imparted to his disciples the impres- 
sion that his own view, respecting the withholding of a deci- 
sive judgment, coincided essentially with that of Socrates and 
of Plato, and if he had not also taught that he was only 
restoring the genuine and original significance of the Platonic 
dialectic when he set aside the dogmatic method of teaching. 
An immediate incitement to the efforts of Arcesilaus is found 
in his opposition to the rigid dogmatic system which had 
latel}' arisen in the Porch, and which claimed to be in every 
respect an improvement upon Platonism. Hence, as Cicero 
remarks, Arcesilaus directed all his sceptical and polemic at- 
tacks against Zeno, the founder of Stoicism. He opposed 
the Stoic theorj' of cognition b}^ maintaining that even false 
conceptions can induce a feeling of intense conviction, and 
that all representation results only in opinion and never in 
knowledge. Accordingly Ai'cesilaus denied the existence of 
a criterion which could certify to us the truth of our knowl- 
edge. If there be an}' truth in our affirmations, said he, we 
cannot be certain of it. In this sense he taught that one can 
know nothing, not even that he does know nothing. But in 
morals, in choosing the good and rejecting the evil, he taught 
that we should follow that which is probable, that which is 
supported b}' the most and best reasons. In this wa}' we 
may act rightl}' and be happy, since this method is in accord 
with reason and the nature of things. 

Of the subsequent leaders in the new Acadeni}-, Carneades 
(214-129) alone need here be mentioned, whose whole phi- 
losoph}', however, consists almost exclusively in a polemic 
against Stoicism. His positive performance is an attempt to 
bring out a philosopliical theory of probabilities or a method 
of probable thought, a determination of the diflTerent degrees 
of probabilit}', which Carneades thought to be a necessity of 



THE EOMAKS. 177 

■practical life. The later Academicians fell back to an eclectic 
dogmatism. 

3. The later Scepticis:^!. — Once more we meet -with a 
peculiar Scepticism at the time when Grecian philosophy had 
wholly fallen to decay. To this time belong ^nesidemus, 
Agrippa^ whose date is also uncertain, though subsequent to 
^nesidemus (he emphasized the necessity of proving ever}' 
thing, but at the same time showed that every proof must 
itself be proved, and so on ad infinitum) , and Sextus Empi- 
ricus, a Greek physician of the empiric sect, who probabl}' 
flomished in the first, half of the thh'd century of the Chiistian 
era. These are the most significant names. Of these the 
last has the greatest interest for us, from two wi'itings which 
he left behind him (the Hypotyposes of Pyrrho in thi-ee books, 
and a treatise against the mathematicians in nine books), 
which are sources of much historical information. In these 
he has profusely collected every thing which the Scepticism 
of the ancients could advance against the certainty of knowl- 
edge. 



SECTION XX. 

THE EOMAXS. 

The Romans took no independent part in the progi'ess of 
philosoph}'. After Greek philosoph}' and literature had begun 
to gain a foothold among them, and especially after three dis- 
tinguished representatives of Attic culture and eloquence — 
Carneades the Academician, Critolaus the Peripatetic, and 
Diogenes the Stoic — had appeared in Rome as envoys from 
Athens ; and after Greece, a few years later, had become a 
Roman province, and thus outwardly in a close connection 
with Rome, almost alf the more significant systems of Gre- 
cian philosophy, especially the Epicurean (Lucretius), and 



178 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the Stoic (Seneca) , flourished and found adherents in Rome, 
though without gaining any real philosophical progress. The 
Roman philosophizing is wholly eclectic, as is seen in Cicero, 
the most important and influential philosophic writer among 
the Romans. But the popular philosophy of this man and 
of the minds akin to him cannot be strongly assailed, for, not- 
withstanding its want of originality and logical sequence, it 
gave philosoph}^ a broad dissemination, and made it a means 
of universal cultm-e. 



SECTION XXI. 

NEO-PLATONISM. 

In Neo-Platonism, the spirit of antiquity made its last and 
almost despairing attempt at a philosophy which should re- 
solve the dualism between the subjective and the objective. 
This attempt was made on the one hand from a subjective 
standpoint, like the other Post-Aristotelian philosophies (c/. 
Sect. XVI. 7) , and on the other with the design to bring out 
objective determinations in reference to the highest concep- 
tions of metaph3^sics, and the absolute ; in other words, to 
sketch a S3'stem of absolute philosophy. In this respect it 
sought to copy the Platonic- Aristotelian philosophy, and 
claimed to be a revival of the original Platonism. On both 
sides the new attempt formed the closing period of ancient 
philosophy. It represents the last struggle, but at the same 
time the exhaustion of the ancient thinking and the dissolu- 
tion of the old pllilosoph3^ 

The first, and also the most important, representative of 
Neo-Platonism, is Plotinus of Lycopolis in Eg3'pt. He was 
a pupil of Ammonius Saccas, who taught the Platonic phi- 
losophy at Alexandria in the beginning of the third century-, 
])ut left no writings behind him. Plotinus (a.d. 205-270) 



NEO-PLATONISM. 179 

from his fortieth jear taught philosophy at Rome. His 
opinions are contained in a course of hastily written and not 
closely connected treatises, which, after his death, were col- 
lected and published in six Enneads by Porphyry (who was 
born A.D. 233, and taught both philosophy and eloquence at 
Rome) , his most noted disciple. From Rome and Alexan- 
dria, the Neo-Platonism of Plotinus passed over in the fourth 
century to Athens, where it established itself in the Academy. 
In the fourth century, Jamblichus^ a scholar of Porphyry, 
and in the fifth, Produs (412-485), were prominent among 
the Neo-Platonists. With the triumph of Christianity and 
the consequent fall of heathenism, in the course of the sixth 
century, even this last bloom of Grecian philosophy faded 
awa}^ 

The common characteristic of all the Neo-Platonists is a 
tendency to mysticism, theosophy, and theurgy. The major- 
ity of them gave themselves up to magic and sorcery, and 
the most distinguished boasted that they were the subjects 
of divine inspiration and illumination, able to look into the 
future, and to work miracles. They professed to be hiero- 
phants as much as philosophers, and exhibited an unmis- 
takable desire to establish a Pagan copy of Christianity, 
which should be at the same time a philosophy and a univer- 
sal religion. In the following sketch of Neo-Platonism we 
confine ourselves mainly to Plotinus. 

1. Ecstasy as a Subjective state. — The result of the 
philosophical strivings antecedent to Neo-Platonism had been 
Scepticism, which, seeing the impracticabiUty of both the 
Stoic and Epicurean theory, had assumed a totally nega- 
tive relation to every positive theoretical content. But the 
end which Scepticism had actually gained was the opposite 
of that for which it had striven. It had striven for the per- 
fect apathy of the sage, but it had gained only the necessity 
of incessantly opposing every positive affii-mation. Instead 
of the rest which they had sought, they found rather an ab- 
solute unrest. This absolute unrest of the consciousness 



180 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

striving after an absolute rest, begat immediately a longing 
to be freed from this unrest, a longing for some conclusion 
which should be absolutel}^ satisfying, and stripped of every 
sceptical objection. This longing after an absolute truth 
found its historical expression in Neo-Platonism. The sub- 
ject sought to master and comprehend the absolute ; and 
this, neither b}^ objective knowledge nor dialectic mediation, 
but immediatel}^ b}^ an inner and mystical exaltation of the 
subject in the form of an immediate beholding, or ecstas}^ 
The knowledge of the true, says Plotinus, is not gained by 
proof nor by any mediation ; it cannot be found when the 
objects known remain separate from the subject knowing, 
but only when the distinction between knower and known 
disappears ; it is a beholding of the reason in itself, not in 
the sense that we see the reason, but the reason beholds it- 
self; in no other way can knowledge arise, . Nay, even this 
self-intuition of reason, within which subject and object are 
still opposed to one another, must itself be transcended. 
The highest stage of knowledge is an intuition of the Highest, 
of the one principle of thhigs, in which all separation be- 
tween it and the soul vanishes ; in which the soul with pure 
rapture touches the absolute itself, and feels itself filled and 
illumined b}^ it. If an}^ one has attained to such a be- 
holding, to such a true unity with the divine, he will despise 
the pure thinking which he otliei'T\'ise loved, for this think- 
ing was only a movement which presupposed a difference 
between the perceiver and the perceived. This m3'stical 
absorption into the Deity, or, the One, this resolving the 
self into the absolute, is that which gives to Neo-Platonism a 
character so peculiarly distinct from the genuine Grecian S3's- 
tcms of philosopli}'. 

2. The Cosmical PuiNCirLES. — The doctrine of the three 
cosmical principles is most closely connected with the thcor}^ 
just named. To the two cosmical prniciples alread}' assumed, 
viz., the world-soul and tlic world-reason, a third and higher 
one was added by the Neo-Platonists, as the ultimate unity 



KEO-PLATONISM. 181 

of all distinctions and antitheses, in which, therefore, aU differ- 
ence must vanish in pure simplicity of being. This simple 
unity cannot be reason, for in reason is the antithesis of 
thought and its object, and the movement from the first to 
the last ; reason relates to the manifold. But the manifold 
presupposes the simple as its principle. If, therefore, there 
is to be a unity of the totality of being, reason must be tran- 
scended and the absolute One attained. To this primal 
essence Plotinus gives different names, as "the first," "the 
one," "the good," and "that which stands above being" 
(being is with him but a subordinate conception, which, 
united with the reason, forms but the second step in the 
series of highest conceptions) . In all these names, Plotinus 
does not profess to have satisfactorily expressed the essence 
of this primal One, but only to have given a representation 
of it. In characterizing it still farther, he denies to it aU 
thinking and willing, because it needs nothing and can desu^e 
nothing ; it is not energy, but above energ}^ ; life does not 
belong to it ; neither being nor essence nor any of the most 
general categories of being can be ascribed to it ; in short, it 
is that which can neither be expressed nor thought. Plotinus 
has throughout striven to think of this first principle as abso- 
lute, as a simple, excluding all determinations which can 
restrict it, and therefore as existing pe?- se, independent of all 
other being. This pure abstraction, however, he could not 
carry out. He set himself to show how every thing else, and 
especially the two other cosmical principles, could emanate 
from this first ; but in order to have a principle for his ema- 
nation theory, he was obliged to consider the first in its rela- 
tion to the second and as its producer. 

3. The E:\ianation Theory of the Neo-Platonists. — 
Every emanation theory, and hence also that of the Neo-Pla- 
tonists, considers the world as the effluence of God, and gives 
to the emanation a gi-eater or less degree of perfection, 
according as it is nearer or more remote from its source, and 
thus represents the totality of being as a series of descending 



182 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

gradations. Fire, ssljs Plotinus, emits heat, snow cold, fra- 
grant bodies odors, and every organic thing so soon as it 
matures begets something like itself. In the same way the 
all-perfect and the eternal, in the excess of his perfection 
sends out from himself that which is also eternal, and after 
him, the best, viz., the reason or world-intelligence, which is 
the immediate reflection and image of the primal One. Plo- 
tinus abounds in figures to show how the primal One need 
lose nothing nor become weakened by this emanation of 
reason. Next to the original One, reason is the most per- 
fect. It contains in itself the ideal world, and the whole 
of true and changeless being. Some notion may be formed 
of its exaltation and glor}^ by attentively considering the sen- 
sible world in its greatness, its beauty, and the order of its 
ceaseless motion, and then by rising to the contemplation of 
its archet3'pe in the pure and changeless being of the intelli- 
gible world, and then by recognizing in intelligence the author 
and finisher of all. In it there is neither past nor future, but 
onW an ever-abiding present. It is, moreover, as incapable 
of division in space as of change in time. It is the true eter- 
nity, of which time is onl}^ a cop3^ As reason flows from the 
jDrimal One, so does the world-soul eternally emanate from 
reason, though tlie latter incurs no change thereby. The 
world-soul is the copy of reason, permeated by it, and actual- 
izing it in an outer world. It gives ideas externally to sen- 
sible matter, which is the last and lowest step in the series 
of emanations and in itself is undetermined, and has neither 
quality nor being. In this way the visible universe is but the 
transcript of the world-soul, which forms it out of matter, 
permeates and animates it, and carries it forward in a circle. 
Here closes the series of emanations, and, as was the aim of 
the tlicor}^, we have been carried in a constant movement 
from the highest to the lowest, from God to the mere image 
of true being, or the sensible world. 

Individual souls, like the world-soul, are linked both to 
the higher and the lower, to reason and the sensible ; now 



NEO-PLATONISM. 183 

bound with the latter and sharing its destinj^, and anon ris- 
ing to their source in reason. Their original and proper 
home was in the rational world, from whence the}^ have un- 
willingly descended, each one in its proper time, into the cor- 
poreal ; not, however, wholly forsaking their ideal abode, 
but as a sunbeam touches at the same time the sun and the 
earth, so are they found alike in the world of reason and 
the world of sense. Om- vocation, therefore, — and here we 
come back to the point from which we started in our exposi- 
tion of Neo-Platonism, — can only be to direct our senses 
and aspirations towards our proper home, in the ideal world, 
and by asceticism and crucif^ang of the flesh, to free our 
better self from its participation with the body. But when 
our soul has once mounted up to the ideal world, that image 
of the originally good and beautiful, it then attains the final 
goal of all its longings and efforts, the immediate union with 
God, through the enraptured beholding of the primal One 
in which it loses its consciousness and becomes buried and 
absorbed. 

According to all this, the Neo-Platonic philosophy would 
seem to be a monism, and thus the most perfect development 
of ancient philosophj^ in so far as this had striven to carry 
back the sum of all being to one ultimate ground. But as it 
attained its highest principle from which all the rest was de- 
rived, by means of ecstac}^ by a mj-stical self-destruction of 
the individual person, by asceticism and them-gy, and not 
by means of self-conscious thinking, nor by any natural or 
rational way, it is evident that ancient philosophy, instead 
of becoming perfected in Neo-Platonism, only overleaps 
itself to its own self-destruction. 



184 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION XXII. 

CHRISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. 

1. The Christian Idea. — The intellectual life of Greece 
at the period of its highest development was characterized by 
the immediate sacrifice of the subject to the object (nature, 
the state, etc.) : the complete severance of the two, of spirit 
and nature, had not yet arrived ; the subject had not yet so 
far reflected upon himself that he could apprehend his own 
absolute worth. This severance began with the decay of 
Grecian life, in the age immediately subsequent to Alexander 
the Great. As the objective world lost its influence, the 
thinking consciousness turned back upon itself; but even in 
this very process, the bridge between sul)ject and object was 
broken down. The self-consciousness had not yet become 
sufficient^ absorbed in itself to look upon the true, the divine, 
in any other light than as separate from itself; while a feel- 
ing of pain, of unsatisfied desire, took the place of that fair 
unity between spirit and nature which had been peculiar to 
the better periods of Grecian civil and artistic life. Neo- 
Platonism, by its extravagant speculation, and, practical!}^, 
by its mortification of the sense, made a last and despairing 
attempt to overcome this separation, or to bury itself within 
it, by bringing the two sides forcibly together. The attempt 
was in vain, and the old philosophy, totally exhausted, came 
to its end. Dualism is therefore the rock on which it split. 
This problem, thus left without a solution, Christianity took 
up. It assumed for its principle the idea which ancient 
thought had not known how to carry out, affinning that the 
separation between God and man might be overcome, and 
that the human and the diWnc could be united in one. The 
speculative fundamental idea of Christianity is, that God has 
become incarnate, and this had its practical exhibition (for 



CHRISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. 185 

Christianity was a practical religion) in the idea of the atone- 
ment and the demand of the new birth, ^.e., the positive 
pm-ification of the sense from its corruptions, instead of a 
merely negative asceticism. 

From the introduction of Christianity, monism has been 
the character and the fundamental tendency of all modern 
philosophy. In fact, the new philosophy started from the 
very point at which the old had stood still. The turning of 
the self-consciousness upon itself, which was the standpoint 
of the Post- Aristotelian speculations, forms in Descartes the 
starting-point of the new philosophy, whose whole course has 
been the mediation and reconcihation of that antithesis be- 
yond which the old could not pass. 

2. Scholasticism. — It very early resulted that Chris- 
tianity came in contact with the cotemporaneous philosophy, 
especially with Platonism. This arose first with the apolo- 
gists of the second century, and the fathers of the Alexan- 
drian church. Subsequent^, in the ninth century, Scotus 
Erigena made an attempt to combine Christianity with Neo- 
Platonism, though it was not till the second half of the 
Middle Ages, from the eleventh century, that there was de- 
veloped any thing that might be properlj^ termed a Christian 
philosophy. This was the so-called Scholasticism. 

The effort of Scholasticism was to mediate between the 
dogma of religion and the reflecting self-consciousness ; to 
reconcile faith and knowledge. When the dogma passed 
over into the schools from the Church which had given it 
utterance, and theology became a science of the universities, 
the scientific interest asserted its rights, and undertook to 
bring the dogma which had hitherto stood over against the 
self- consciousness as an external power, into a closer rela- 
tion to the thinking subject. A series of attempts was now 
made to bring out the doctrines of the Church in the form of 
a scientific system (the first complete dogmatic system was 
that of Peter Lombard (who died 1164) in his four books of 
sentences, and was voluminously commented upon by the 



186 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

later Scholastics) , all starting from the indisputable premise 
(bej'ond which scholastic thinking never went) , that the faith 
of the church is absolute truth ; but all guided likewise by 
the deshe to make this revealed truth intelligible, and to 
show it to be rational. ''^ Credo ut iyitelligam'' — this ex- 
pression of Anselm, the beginner and founder of Scholasti- 
cism (he was born about 1035, and made Archbishop of 
Canterbury in 1093), was the watchword of the whole move- 
ment. Scholasticism applied to the solution of its problem 
the most remarkable logical acumen, and brought out sys- 
tems of doctrine like the Gothic cathedrals in their architec- 
ture. The extended study of Aristotle, called ^«r eminence 
"the philosopher," whom many of the most distinguished 
Scholastics wrote commentaries upon, and who was exten- 
sively studied at the same period among the Arabians {Avi- 
cerma and Averroes) , furnished their terminology and most 
of their points of view. At the summit of Scholasticism we 
must place the two incontestably greatest masters of the 
Scholastic art and method, Thomas Aquinas (Dominican, 
who died 1274) and Dims Scotus (Franciscan, who died 
1308), the founders of two schools, into which after them the 
whole Scholastic theology divides itself, — the former exalting 
the understanding (intellectus) , and the latter the will (volun- 
tas), as the highest principle, both being driven into essen- 
tially differing directions by this opposition of the theoretical 
and practical. Even with this began the downfall of Scho- 
lasticism ; its highest point was also the turning-point to its 
self-destruction. The rationality of the dogma, the oneness 
of faith and knowledge, had been constantly their fundamen- 
tal premise ; but this premise fell awa}^ and the whole basis 
of their metaphysics was given up in principle, the moment 
Duns Scotus placed the problem of theology in the practical. 
When the practical and the theoretical became divided, and 
still more when tliouglit and being were separated by Nomin- 
alism (cf. 3), pliilosophy broke loose from theology and 
knowledge from faith ; knowledge assumed its position above 



CHEISTIANITY AND SCHOLASTICISM. 187 

faith and above authority (modern philosophy), and the 
rehgious consciousness broke with the traditional dogma (the 
Reformation) . 

3. Nominalism and Realism. — Hand in hand with the 
whole development of Scholasticism, there was developed the 
opposition between Nominalism and Realism, an opposition 
whose origin is to be found in the relation of Scholasticism to 
the Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy. The Nominahsts 
were those who held that conceptions of the universal {uni- 
versaUa) were simple names, jlatus vocis^ representations 
without content and without reality. According to them 
there are no universal conceptions, no species, no classes ; 
every thing which is, exists only as separate in its pure 
individuality ; there is, therefore, no pure thinking, but onl}^ 
representation and sensuous perception. The Realists, on 
the other hand, taking pattern from Plato, held fast to the 
objective reality of universals (tcniversalia ante rem) . This 
opposition appeared fii'st between Moscellinus, who took the 
side of Nominalism, and ^nseZm, who advocated the Realistic 
theory, and it is seen from this time through the whole period 
of Scholasticism, though from the age of Ahelard (born 1Q79) 
a middle view, which was both Nominalistic and Realistic, 
held with some slight modifications the prominent ]place (imi- 
versalia in re) . According to this view the universal is only 
something thought and represented, though as such it is uot 
simply a product of the representing consciousness, but has 
also its objective reality in objects themselves, from which, it 
was argued, we could not abstract it if it were not essentially 
contained in them. This identity of thought and being, is 
the fundamental premise on which the whole dialectic course 
of Scholasticism rests. All its arguments are founded on 
the claim, that that which has been syllogistically proved 
exists in reahty as well as in logical thinking. If this pre- 
mise is overthrown, so falls with it the whole basis of Scho- 
lasticism ; and there remains nothing more for thought, thus 
at fault in reference to its own objectivity, but to fall back 



188 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

upon itself. This self-dissolution of Scholasticism actually 
appears with William of Occam (died 1347), the most influ- 
ential reviver of that Nominalism which had been so might}' 
in the beginning of Scholasticism, but which now, more vic- 
torious against a deca3ing than then against a rising form of 
culture, plucked away its foundation from the framework of 
Scholastic dogmatism, and brought the whole structure into 
inevitable ruin. 



SECTION XXIII. 

TRANSITION TO MODEEN PHILOSOPHY. 

The emancipation of modern philosophy from the bondage 
of Scholasticism was a gradual process. It first showed 
itself in a series of preparative movements during the fif- 
teenth century, and was completed negative^, in the com'se 
of the sixteenth, and positively in the first half of the seven- 
teenth centur}'. 

1. Fall of Scholasticism. — The immediate ground of 
this changed du^ection of the time, we have ah'ead}' seen in 
the inner deca}- of Scholasticism itself. Just so soon as the 
fundamental premise on which the Scholastic theology and 
method rested, the rationality of the dogma, was abandoned, 
the whole structure, as alread}' remarked, fell to inevitable 
ruin. The conviction, directly opposed to the principle of 
Scholasticism, that what might be true dogmaticallj', might 
be false, or, at least, incapable of proof in the e3'e of the 
reason — a point of view from which, e.g., the Aristotelian 
Pomponatius (1462-1530) treated the doctrines of the future 
state, and in whose light Vanini subsequently went over the 
chief problems of philosophy — kept gaining ground, notwith- 
standing the opposition of the Church, and even associated 



TRANSITION TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY.- 189 

with itself the opinion that reason and revelation could not 
be harmonized. The feeling became prevalent that philoso- 
phy must be freed from its previous condition of minority 
and servitude ; a struggle after a greater independence of 
philosophic investigation was awakened, and though no one 
yet ventured to attack dkectly the doctrine of the Chui'ch, 
the effort was made to shatter the confidence in the chief 
bulwark of Scholasticism, the Aristotelian philosophy, or 
what at that period was regarded as such ; (especially in this 
connection Peter Ramus (1515-1572), should be mentioned, 
who fell in the massacre of St. Bartholomew) . The authority 
of the Church became more and more weakened in the faith 
of the people, and the great systems of Scholasticism came 
to an end. 

2. The Eesults of Scholasticism. — Notwithstanding all 
this, Scholasticism was not without its positively good results. 
Though wholly in the service of the Church, it had, never- 
theless, grown out of a scientific impulse, and thus naturally 
awakened a free spirit of inquiry and a taste for knowledge. 
It made the objects of faith the objects of thought, it raised 
men from the sphere of unconditional faith to the sphere of 
doubt, of investigation and of knowledge, and by its very 
effort to demonstrate the principles of theology it established, 
though against its knowledge and design, the authority of 
reason. It thus introduced to the world another principle 
than that of the old Church, the principle of the thinking 
spirit, the self-consciousness of the reason, or at least pre- 
pared the way for the victory of this principle. Even the 
deformities and unfavorable side of Scholasticism, the many 
absurd questions upon which the Scholastics divided, even 
their thousand-fold unnecessary and accidental distinctions, 
their inquisitiveness and subtleties, all sprang from a rational 
principle, and grew out of a spirit of investigation, which 
could only utter itself in this way under the all-powerful 
ecclesiastical spirit of the time. Only when it was surpassed 
by the advancing spirit of the age, did Scholasticism, faLsi- 



190 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

f3-ing its original meaning, make common cause and interest 
with the old ecclesiasticism, and become the most violent 
opponent of the improvements of the new period. 

3. The Revival of Letters. — The revival of classic 
liter atm-e contributed prominently to that change in the sph-it 
of the age which marks the beginning of the new epoch of 
philosoph}'. The study of the ancients, especially of the 
Greeks, had almost wholly ceased in the course of the Middle 
Ages ; even the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle was known, 
for the most part, onl}^ thi'ough Latin ti'anslations or second- 
ary sources ; no one realized the spmt of classic life, and all 
sense for beauty of form and elegant composition had passed 
away. The change was chie% brought about b}' means of 
the Greek scholars who fled from Constantinople to Italj^ ; 
the stud}' of the ancients in the original sources was re- 
newed ; the newly-discovered art of printing allowed the 
classics to be widely circulated ; the Medicis di'ew classic 
scholars to their court ; all this working for a far better un- 
derstanding of the ancient philosoph3\ Besarion (died 1472) 
and Ficinns (died 1499) were prominent in this movement. 
The result was presentl}' seen. The new scholars contended 
against the stiff and uncritical manner in which the sciences 
had hitherto been treated, new ideas began to circulate, and 
there arose once more the free, universal, thinking spuit of 
antiquit}'. In German}', also, classic studies found a fruit- 
ful soil. Reuchlin (born 1454), Melancthon and Erasmus, 
labored in this direction, and the classic movement, hostile 
as it was to the Scholastic impulse, favored most decidedly 
the growing tendencies to the Refonuation. 

4. The German Reformation. — All the elements of the 
new age, the struggle against Scholasticism, the revival of 
letters and the more enlarged culture thus secured, the striv- 
ing after national independence, the attempts of the state to 
free itself from the Cluu'ch and the hierarch}', and above all, 
the desire of the tliinking self-consciousness for autonoiu}', 
for freedom from the fetters of authority — all these elements 



TEANSITIOX TO MODEEX PHILOSOPHY. 191 

found their focus and point of union in the German Refor- 
mation. Though having its root at first in practical, and 
rehgious, and national interests, and falhng ver}' early into 
erroneous courses, issuing in a dogmatic ecclesiastical one- 
sidedness, yet was the Eeformation in prmciple and in its 
true consequences a rupture of the thinking spirit with author- 
ity, a protest against the fetters of the positive, a return of 
the mind from its self-esti-angement to itself. From that 
which was without, the mind now came back to that which 
is within, and the pm-el}' human as such, the individual heart 
and conscience, subjective con\'iction, in a word, the rights 
of the subject now began to be of worth. TThile marriage 
had formerly been regarded, though not immoral, as yet infe- 
rior to continence and celibacy, it appeared now as a divine 
institution, a natural law ordained of God. While poverty' 
had formerly been esteemed higher than wealth, and the con- 
templative life of the monk was superior to the manual labor 
of the layman supporting himself by his own toil, poverty- 
now ceased to be desu-able in itself, and labor was no longer 
despised. Ecclesiastical freedom took the place of spiiitual 
bondage ; monasticism and the priesthood lost then- power. 
In the same way, on the side of knowledge the individual 
came back to himself, and threw off the restraints of 
authority-. He was impressed with the conviction that the 
whole process of redemption must be experienced within him- 
self, that his reconciliation to God and salvation was his own 
concern, for which he needed no mediation of priests, and 
that he stood in an immediate relation to God. He found 
his whole being in his faith, in the depth of his feelings and 
comictions. 

Since thus Protestantism sprang from the same spirit in 
which modem philosoph}- had its bui;h, the two have the 
closest relation to each other, though of course there is a 
specific difference between the rehgious and the scientific 
principle. Yet in their origin, both kinds of Protestantism, 
that of religion and that of thought, are one and the same, 



192 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

and in their progress they have also gone hand in hand 
together. For the reduction of rehgion to its simplest ele- 
ments, which Protestantism began but allowed to stop at the 
Bible, must necessarily be carried farther, terminating only 
with the ultimate, original, supra-historical element, z.e., 
with that rational knowledge which is the source of all re- 
ligion as well as of all philosophy. 

5. The Advancement of the Natural Sciences. — To 
all these phenomena, which should be regarded both as causes 
and as symptoms of the intellectual revolution of this period, 
we must add 3^et another, which essentially facihtated and 
positively assisted in freeing thought from the fetters of 
authorit}', — the starting up of the natural sciences and the 
inductive method of examining nature. This epoch was a 
period of the most fruitful and influential discoveries in natu- 
ral science. The discover}^ of America and the passage to 
the East Indies had ah-eady widened the circle of view, but 
still greater revolutions are connected with the names of 
Copernicus (died 1543), Kepler (died 1630), and Galileo 
(died 1642), revolutions which could not remain without an 
influence upon the whole mode of thinking of that age, and 
contributed prominently^ to break the faith in the prevailing 
ecclesiastical authority. Scholasticism had turned awa}^ from 
nature and the phenomenal world, and, blind towards that 
which lay before its e3'es, had spent itself in a dreamy 
/ intellectualit}" ; but now nature rose again in honor ; her 
glor}^ and exaltation, her infinite diversit}^ and fulness of life 
became again the immediate objects of observation ; to inves- 
tigate nature became an essential object of philosoph}^ and 
scientific empiricism was thus regarded as a universal and 
essential concern of the thinker. From this time the natural 
sciences date their historical importance, for only from this 
time have the}' had an uninterrupted history'. The results 
of this now intellectual movement can be readil}' estimated. 
Such a scientific investigation of nature not only destro^'cd 
a series of traditional errors and prejudices, but, what was 



TRANSITION TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 193 

of greater importance, it directed the intellectual interest 
towards that which is real and actual, it nourished and pro- 
tected reflection and the feeling of self-dependence, the sphit 
of inquiry and doubt. The standpoint of observation and 
experiment presupposes an independent self-consciousness of 
the individual, a breaking loose from authority, — in a word, 
scepticism, with which, in fact, the founders of modern phi- 
losoph}'-, Bacon and Descartes., began ; the former b)' con- 
ditioning the knowledge of natm^e upon the removal of all 
prejudice and every preconceived opinion, and the latter by 
demanding that philosophy should be begun with universal 
doubt. No wonder that a bitter struggle should soon break 
out between the natural sciences and ecclesiastical orthodoxy, 
which could only result in breaking the power of the latter. 

6 . Bacon of Verulam. — Francis Bacon was born in 1561 , 
and was Lord High Chancellor of England and Keeper of 
the King's Seal under James I. From these offices he was 
subsequently expelled, and died in 1626, with a character 
which has not been without reproach. He took as his princi- 
ple the inductive method, which he directed express^ against 
Scholasticism and the ruling scientific method. On this 
account he is frequentty placed at the head of modern phi- 
losophy-. 

The sciences, saj's Bacon, have hitherto been in a most 
deplorable condition. Philosoph}-, wasted in empty and 
fruitless logomachies, has failed during so many centuries 
to bring out a single work or experiment of actual benefit to 
human life. Logic hitherto has subserved rather the estab- 
lishment of error than the investigation of truth. Whence 
all this ? Why this penury of the sciences ? Simply because 
they have broken away from then* root in nature and expe- 
rience. The blame of this is chargeable to many sources ; 
first, the old and rooted prejudice that the human mind loses 
somewhat of its dignity when it busies itself much and con- 
tinuously with experiments and material things ; next, super- 
stition and a blind religious zeal, which has been the most 



194 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

irreconcilable opponent of natural pliilosopli}^ ; again, the ex- 
clusive attention paid to morals and politics by the Romans, 
and since the Christian era to theology, b}' every acute mind ; 
still farther, the great authority of certain philosophers and 
the great reverence paid to antiquity ; and, in fine, a want 
of courage and a despair of overcoming the man}^ and great 
difficulties which lie in the way of the investigation of nature. 
All these causes have contributed to keep down the sciences. 
Hence they must now be renewed, and regenerated, and re- 
formed in their most fundamental principles ; there must now 
be found a new basis for knowledge and new principles of 
science. This radical reformation of the sciences depends 
upon two conditions, — objectivel}" upon the referring of 
science to experience and the philosophy of nature, and sub- 
jectively upon the purifying of the sense and the intellect 
from all abstract theories and traditional prejudices. These 
two conditions together furnish the correct method of natural 
science, which is nothing other than the method of induction. 
Upon correct induction depends all the soundness of the 
sciences. 

In these propositions the Baconian philosophy is contained. 
The historical significance of its founder is, therefore, in gen- 
eral this, — that he directed the attention and reflection of 
his cotemporaries again upon the given actuality, upon na- 
ture ; that he affirmed the necessity of experience, which had 
been formerly only a matter of accident, and made it in and 
for itself an object of thought. His merit consists in having 
established scientific empiricism, and only in this. Strictly 
speaking, we can allow no content to the Baconian philoso- 
ph}^, although (in his treatise De Augmentis Scientiarum) he 
has attempted a S3'stematic encyclopedia of the sciences on a 
new principle of classification, through which he has scattered 
an abundance of fine and fruitful observations, which are still 
used as apothegms. 

7. The Italian riiiLOSoniERS of the Transition Epoch. 
— Besides Bacon there were others who prepared and intro- 



TRANSITION TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY. 195 

duced the new age of philosoph}^ First among these is a 
Ust of Italian philosophers of the second half of the sixteenth 
and the first half of the seventeenth centmy. These philoso- 
phers are connected in a twofold manner with the movements 
of this transition periody first by an enthusiasm for nature 
which among them all partook in a greater or less degi^ee of 
pantheism (Vanini, e.^., gave to one of his writings the title 
" concerning the wonderful secrets of nature, the queen and 
goddess of mortals ") , and second, by then' connection with 
the S3'stems of ancient philosophy. The best known of these 
philosophers are the following ; Cardanus (1501-1575), Cam- 
panella (1568-1639), Giordano Bruno (1548-1600), Vanini 
(1586-1619). They were all men of a passionate, enthusi- 
astic, and impetuous nature, unsteady and wild in character, 
restless and adventurous in life, men who were inspu*ed by 
an eager impulse towards knowledge, but who were carried 
awa}' b}' fantasy, wildness of imagination, and a tendency" 
toward secret astrological and geomantic knowledge. For 
these reasons the}' also passed away, leading no fruitful re- 
sult. They were all persecuted by the hierarch}', and two of 
them (Bruno and Vanini) ended their lives at the stake. 
Their whole historj- is like the eruption of a volcano, and they 
are to be regarded more as forerunners and announcers than 
as beginners and founders of the new age of philosophy. The 
most important among them is Giordano Bruno. He revived 
the old idea of the Stoics, that the world is a living being, 
and that a world-soul penetrates it all. The content of his 
general thought is the profoundest enthusiasm for nature, and 
the plastic reason which is present in it. The reason is, 
according to him, the inner artist who shapes the matter and 
manifests himself in the forms of the unii-erse. From the 
heart of the root or the germ he sends out the lobes, and 
from these again he evolves the shoots, and from the shoots 
the branches, until bud, and leaf, and blossom are brought 
forth. Every thing is inwardly arranged, adjusted, and per- 
fected. Thus the universal reason calls back from within the 



196 A histohy of philosophy. 

sap out of the fruits and flowers to the branches again, etc. 
The universe thus is an infinite living thing, in which every 
thing lives and moves after the most manifold ways. 

The relation of the reason to matter, Bruno determines 
wholly in the Aristotelian manner ; both stand related to each 
other as form and matter, as actualit}' and potentiality, nei- 
ther is without the other ; the form is the inner impelling might 
of matter, and matter, as the unlimited possibility, as the 
capability for an infinite diversity of form, is the mother of 
all forms. The other side of Bruno's philosophizing, his 
theory of the forms of knowledge, which occupies the greater 
part of his writings, has little philosophic interest, and we 
therefore pass it by. 

8. Jacob Boehme. — Like Bacon among the English and 
Bruno among the Italians, Jacob Boehme is among the Ger- 
mans the exponent of this transition period. Each of these 
three deals with the matter in a way peculiar to his own 
nationalit}" ; Bacon as the herald of empiricism, Bruno as 
the representative of a poetic pantheism, and Boehme as the 
father of theosophic mysticism. If we consider solely the 
profoundness of his principle, Boehme should hold a much 
later place in the history of philosophy, but if we look chiefly 
at the imperfect form of his pliilosophizing, his rank would 
be assigned to the m3'stics of the Middle Ages, while ciiro- 
nologically we must associate him with the German Refor- 
mation and the protestant elements that were nourished at 
that time. His true position is among the forerunners and 
prophets of the new age. 

Jacob Boehme was born in 1575, in old Seidcnburg, a vil- 
lage of upper Lusace, not far from Goerlitz. His parents 
were poor peasants. In his boyhood he took care of the cat- 
tle, and in his 3'outh, after he had acquired the rudiments of 
reading and writing in a village school, he was sent to Goer- 
litz to learn the shoemaker's trade. He finished his appren- 
ticeship and settled down at Goerlitz in 1594 as master of 
his trade. Even in his youth he had received illuminations 



TEA2!TSITI0N TO M0DEE:N" PHILOSOPHY. 197 

or mysterious revelations, which were subsequently repeated 
when his mind, striving for the truth, had become profound!}' 
agitated b}^ the religious conflicts of the age. Besides the 
Bible, the only books which Boehme read were some mystical 
wiitings of a theosophic and alchemistic character, e.(/., those 
of Paracelsus. His entire want of cultm'e is seen as soon 
as he undertakes to write down his thoughts, or, as he calls 
them, his illuminations. Hence the imperious sti'uggle of 
the thought with the expression, which, however, not unfre- 
quently rises to a dialectical acuteness and a poetic beauty. 
His first treatise, Aurora^ composed in the year 1612, brought 
Boehme into trouble with the chief pastor in Goerlitz, Gre- 
gorius Richter, who publicly condemned the book from the 
pulpit, and even ridiculed the person of its author. The 
writing of books was prohibited him by a magistrate, a pro- 
hibition which Boehme observed for many 3'ears, tUl at length 
the command of the sph'it was too mighty within him, and he 
took up again his literar}- labors. Boehme was a plain, quiet, 
modest, and gentle man. He died in 1624. 

To give an exposition of his theosophy in a few words is 
ver}- difficult, since Boehme, instead of clothing his thoughts 
in a logical form, uses onl}- sensuous pictures and obscure 
analogies, and often availed himself of the most arbitrary and 
singular modes of ex^^ression. A twilight reigns in his writ- 
ings, as in a Gothic cathedi'al where the light falls thi'ough 
variegated windows. Hence the magic effect which he has 
made upon many hearts. The chief thought of his philoso- 
phizing is, that self-distinction, self-du-emption is the essen- 
tial determination of sph-it, and hence of God so far as God 
is to be apprehended as spirit. God, according to Boehme, 
is living spirit only at the time and in the degi'ee in which he 
conceives within himself a different from himself, and is in 
this distinction object and consciousness. This self-differen- 
tiation of the Deity is the only source of his and of all actu- 
osity and spontaneity, the spring and fountain of that self- 
activeiife which produces consciousness out of itself. Boehme 



198 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

is inexhaustible in images by which this negativitj' in God, 
his self-distinguishing and self-manife station in the world, 
may be made conceivable. Great expansion without end, he 
saj's, needs limitation and a compass in which it may mani- 
fest itself, for in expansion without limit there could be no 
manifestation, there must be a contraction and an enclosing, 
in order that a manifestation may arise. See, he says in 
another place, if the will were only of one kind, then would 
the soul have onl}^ one qualitj', and were an immovable thing, 
which would alwaj's lie still and never do any thing farther 
than one thing ; in this there could be no jo}', as also no art 
nor science of other things, and no wisdom ; every thing 
would be a nothing, and there would be neither heart nor will 
for any thing, for there would be only the single. Hence it 
cannot be said that the whole God is in one will and one 
being ; there is a distinction. Nothing can ever become 
manifest to itself without resistance, for if it suffers no resist- 
ance, it expends itself and never comes to itself again ; but 
if it does not come to itself again as to that from which it 
originally sprung, it knows nothing of its original condition. 
The above thought Boehme expresses when he sa^'s in his 
Questionibus Theosophicis : the reader should know that in 
3'ea and nay all things consist, whether divine, devilish, 
earthly, or whatever may be named. The one as the 3'ea, 
is simple energ}' and love, and is the truth of God and God 
himself. But this were inconceivable, and there were neither 
delight, nor elevation, nor sensibiht}^, without the na}'. The 
nay is a reaction against the j'ea, or truth, in order that the 
truth ma}^ be manifest and something in which there may be 
a contrarhun^ where eternal love may work and become sen- 
sitive and willing. There is nothing in the one which is an 
occasion for willing until the one becomes duplicated, and so 
there can be no sensation in unit}', but onl}' in dualit3\ In 
brief, according to Boehme, neither knowledge nor conscious- 
ness is possible, without distinction, without opposition, with- 
out dupUcation ; a thing becomes clear and an object of 



DESCAETES. 199 

consciousness onl}* thi'ougli something else, throiigli its own 
opposite (wMcli is yet identical vritli itself). It was very 
natui'al to connect this thought of a unity distinguishing it- 
self in itself, with the Chiistian doctrine of the Trinity, as 
Boehme has^ in fact, repeatedly done when treating of the 
Di^-ine life and its process of duplication. Schelling after- 
wards took up these ideas of Boehme and philosophicaUj' 
elaborated them. 

If we should assign to the theosophy of Boehme a position 
in the development of later philosophy coiTcsponding to the 
imier content of its principle, it would most properh' be 
placed as a complement to the system of Spinoza.. If Spinoza 
taught the reflux of all finitude into the eternal one, Boehme, 
on the other hand, shows the procession of the finite from the 
eternal one, and the inner necessity of this procession, since 
the being of this one would be rather a not-being without such 
a self-duplication. Compared with Descartes, Boehme has at 
least more profoundly apprehended the conception of self- 
consciousness and the relation of the finite to God. But his 
historical position in other respects is far too isolated and 
exceptional, and his mode of statement far too impure, to 
warrant us in incorporating him anwhere in a series of sys- 
tems developed continuously and in a genetic connection. 



SECTION XXIV. 

'- DESCAETES. 

The founder of modern philosophy is Descartes. While, 
lUvC the men of the transition epoch just noticed, he broke 
loose entirely from the previous philosophizing, and began 
wholly de novo, he did not content himself, Ifiie Bacon, with 
merely bringing out a new method, or lilie Boehme and his 



200 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

cotemporaries among the Italians, with affirming philosophi- 
cal views without a methodical ground. He went further than 
an}^ of these, and from the standpoint of universal doubt, 
^aflai'med a new, positive, and pregnant philosophical principle, 
from which he attempted logically to deduce the chief points 
of his system. The character and novelty of his principle 
makes him the beginner, and its inner fruitfulness the founder, 
of modern philosoph3\ 

Een6 Descartes {Renatus Cartesius) was born in 1596, at 
La Haye in Touraine. Very early dissatisfied with the preva- 
lent philosophy, he became altogether sceptical in regard to 
it, and determined after the completion of his studies to bid 
adieu to all school learning, and thenceforward to learn only 
from himself and the great book of the world, from nature 
and the observation of human life. In his twenty-first 3^ear 
he exchanged the study of science for the life of the camp, 
serving as a volunteer first under Maurice of Orange and 
afterwards under Tilly. The impulse toward philosophical 
and mathematical investigations was, however, too powerful 
to permit him to abandon them permanently. In 1621 having, 
after long inward struggles, formed the design of reconstruct- 
ing science upon a surer basis, he left the camp, made several 
long journeys, stayed for a long time in Paris, and finally in 
1629 abandoned his native land and betook himself to Hol- 
land, that he might there, undisturbed and unknown, devote 
himself to philosophy and elaborate his scientific ideas. He 
spent twent}^ years in Holland, enduring much vexatious treat- 
ment from fanatical theologians, until in 1649 he accepted an 
invitation from Queen Christina of Sweden, to visit Stock- 
holm, where he died in the following j^ear. 

The more important principles of the Cartesian system 
may be seen condensed in the following epitome. 

1. If science is ever to attain any tiling fixed and abiding, 
it must begin at the foundation ; every presupposition which 
we may have cherished from infancy must be abandoned ; in 
a word, wc must doubt wherever doubt is possible, We 



DESCABTES. 201 

must therefore doubt not only the existence of the objects 
of sense, since the senses so frequently deceive, but also the 
truths of mathematics and geometry, — for, however evident 
the proposition ma}' appear that two and three malve five, or 
that the square has fom* sides, yet we cannot know whether 
vaUd knowledge is at all possible to finite beings, or whether 
God ma}' not have designedly formed us for eiToneous judg- 
ments. It is therefore ad^-isable to doubt every thing, nay, 
even to den}' every thing, to posit every thing as false. 

2. But though we posit every thing as false to which the 
slightest doubt may be attached, yet we cannot deny one 
thing, viz., the truth that we, who so think, do exist. But 
rather from the very fact that I posit ever}' thing as false, 
that I doubt every thing, is it manifest that I, the doubter, 
exist. Hence the proposition : I think, therefore I am 
{cogito ergo sum) , is the first and most certain position which 
ofi'ers itself to eveiy one attempting to philosophize. Upon 
this the most certain of all propositions, the certainty of all 
other knowledge depends. The objection of Gassendi, that 
existence may be inferred from any other acti^-ity of man 
as well as from thinking, that I might just as well say : I go 
to walk, therefore I exist, — has no weight ; for, of all my 
actions, I can be absolutely certain only of my thinking. 

3. From the proposition, I think, therefore I am, the 
whole natiu'e of the mind may be determined. TThen we ex- 
amine who we are who hold every thing to be false that is 
distinct jQ:om ourselves, we see clearly that without destroy- 
ing our personalit}- we can think ourselves to be without 
every thing which belongs to us, except onl}' om- thought. 
Hence, neither extension nor figure, nor any thing which can 
be predicated of body, but only thought, belongs to our na- 
ture. I am, therefore, essentially a thinking being, i.e., 
mind, soul, intelligence, reason. Thought is my substance. 
Mind can therefore be apprehended clearly and completely 
for itself alone, without any of those attributes which belong 
to body. The conception of it contains nothing of that which 



202 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

belongs to the conception of body. It is therefore impossi- 
ble to apprehend it thi'ough any sensuous representation, or 
to make an image of it : it is apprehended through pure 
thought alone. 

4. From the proposition cogito ergo sum, follows still 
farther the universal rule of all certainty. I am certain that 
because I think, I exist. Whence comes this certaint}'? 
Evidentl}^ from the clear discernment, that it is impossible 
that an}' one should think and jet not exist. From this is 
readity deduced the universal criterion of certainty in knowl- 
edge ; every thing is certain which I perceive clearly and evi- 
dently to be true, which ni}^ reason apprehends as true with 
the same iiTcsistible clearness as this cogito ergo sum. 

5. This rule, however, is only a i^rinciple of certainty; it 
affords no knowledge of the truth itself. We merely apply 
it to our thoughts or ideas, in order to discover which of them 
are objectively true. But our ideas are parti}- innate, partly 
acquired, and partly self-originated. Among these ideas we 
find preeminent before all the idea of God. The question 
arises, whence have we this idea? Manifestly not from our- 
selves ; this idea could only be implanted within us by a being 
who has the fulness of all perfection in himself, i.e., only by 
an actually existing God. If I ask now, whence have I the 
faculty to conceive of a nature more perfect than my own ? 
the answer must ever be, that I have it only from him whose 
nature is actually more perfect. All the attributes of God, 
the more I contemplate them, show that the conception of 
them could not have originated with myself alone. For 
thonsfh there miffht be in me the idea of substance because I 
am a substance, yet I could not of myself have the idea of an 
infinite substance, since I am finite ; such an idea could only 
be given me through a substance actually infinite. Moreover, 
we must not tliink that the conception of the infinite is to be 
gained tlu'ough abstraction and negation, as darkness, perhaps, 
is the negation of light ; but I perceive, rather, that the in- 
finite contains more reality than the finite, and that, therefore, 



DESCARTES. 203 

the conception of the infinite must be correspondingly ante- 
cedent in me to that of the finite. Since then I have a clear 
and determined idea of the infinite substance, and since this 
has a greater objective reality than ever^^ other, there is no 
other which I have so little reason to doubt. But now since 
I am certain that the idea of God has come to me from God 
himself, it only remains for me to examine the way in which 
I have received it from God. I have neither constructed it 
from the materials afibrded by the senses, nor has it come to 
me therefrom involuntarily like the ideas of sensible objects, 
since these arise through aff'ections of the external organs ; 
neither have I invented it, since I can neither add any thing 
to it nor take any thing from it ; it must, therefore, be innate 
as the idea of myself is innate. Hence the first proof we can 
assign for the existence of a God is the fact that we find the 
idea of a God within us, and that we must have a real cause 
for its being. Again, the existence of a God may be con- 
cluded from my own imperfection, and especially from the 
knowledge of m}^ imperfection. For since I know that there 
is a perfection which is wanting in me, it follows that there 
must exist a being who is more perfect than I, on whom I 
depend and from whom I receive all I possess. — But the best 
and most evident proof for the existence of God is, in fine, 
that which is gained from the conception of a God. The 
mind among all its dififerent ideas singles out the chiefest of 
all, that of the most perfect being, and perceives that this has 
not onl}^ the possibility of existence, i.e., accidental existence 
like all other ideas, but that it involves necessary existence in 
itself. And as the mind knows that in every triangle its three 
angles are equal to two right angles, because this is implied 
in the very idea of a triangle, so does the mind necessarily 
conclude that since necessary existence is involved to the con- 
ception of the most perfect being, the most perfect being ac- 
tually exists. No other idea which the mind finds within 
itself involves necessary existence, but from the idea of the 
Supreme Being existence cannot be separated without contra- 



204 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

diction. It is oiilj' oiu- prejudices which keep us from seeing 
this. Since we are accustomed in ever}^ thing to separate the 
conception of it from its existence, and since we often con- 
struct ideas arbitrarilj', it readilj' happens, that when we con- 
template the Supreme Being we are in doubt whether its idea 
ma}' not also be one arbitraril}- devised, or at least one in 
whose conception existence is not contained. — This proof is 
essentially different from that of Anselm of Canterbury, which 
was controverted by Thomas. His argmnent was as follows : 
"When we consider what the word God signifies, it is evi- 
dent that we understand b}'^ it that which must be thought as 
the greatest ; but to exist actually as well as in thought is 
gi'eater than to exist in thought alone ; therefore God exists 
not only in thought but in fact." Here the defect in the syl- 
logism is manifest, for the legitimate conclusion would be, 
God must therefore be thought as existing in fact ; but from 
this the actuality of his existence does not at all follow. My 
proof on the other hand is this, — we ma}^ predicate of a thing 
what we clearly see belongs to its true and changeless nature, 
or to its essence, or to its form. But after we had examined 
what God is, we found existence to belong to his true and 
changeless nature, and therefore may we properly predicate 
existence of God. Necessary existence is contained in the 
idea of the most perfect being, not hj a fiction of our under- 
standing but because existence belongs to his eternal and 
changeless nature. 

6. The result just obtained — the existence of God — is 
of the highest consequence. Before attaining this we were 
obliged to doubt every thing, and give up even every cer- 
tainty, for we did not know but that it was the nature of the 
human mind to err, but that God had formed us for error. 
But so soon as we look at the necessary attributes of God in 
the innate idea of him, we know that he is veracious. It 
would, therefore, be a contradiction to suppose that he would 
deceive us, or that he could have made us to err ; for though 
an ability to deceive might prove his skill, a willingness to 



DESCAETES. 205 

deceive would only demonstrate his frailty. Our reason, there- 
fore, can never apprehend an object which might possibly be 
untrue so far as the reason apprehended it, i.e., so far as it is 
clearly known. For God might justly be stjded a deceiver 
if he had given us a reason so perverted as to mistake the 
false for the true. And thus the absolute doubt with which 
we began is dispelled. From the existence of God we derive 
every certainty. For to be assured of the certainty of any 
knowledge it is sufficient that we have known a thing clearly- 
and distinctly, and are certain of the existence of a veracious 
God. 

7. From the true idea of God follow the ]Drinciples of a 
philosophy of nature or the doctrine of the two substances. 
Substance is that which so exists that it needs nothing else [ 
for its existence. In this (highest) sense God is the only 
substance. God, as the infinite substance, has the ground 
of his existence in himself, is the cause of himself. The two 
created substances, on the other hand, the thinking and the 
corporeal substance, mind and matter, are substances only 
in a broader sense of the word ; they ma}' be apprehended 
under the common conception that they are things which for 
their existence need only the cooperation of God. Each of 
these two substances has an attribute which constitutes its 
nature and its essence, and to which all its other determina- 
tions may be referred. The attribute and essence of matter 
is extension, that of mind, thought. For every thing else 
which can be predicated of bod}' presupposes extension, and 
is only a mode of extension, as every thing we can find in 
mind is onl}' a modification of thought. A substance to which 
thought immediately belongs is called mind, and a substance, 
which is the immediate substratum of extension, is called 
body. Since thought and extension are distinct from each 
other, and since mind can not only be known without the 
attributes of body, but is in itself the negation of those attri- 
butes, we may say that the essence of these substances Hes 
in their reciprocal negation. Mind and body are wholly dis- 
tinct, and have nothing in common. 



206 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

8. We pass by the phj'sics of Descartes, which has onl}' a 
subordinate philosophical interest, and notice next his views 
of anthropology. From this dualistic relation between mind 
and matter, there follows a dualistic relation between soul 
and bod3\ If matter is essentially extension, and mind 
essentiall}" thought, and if the two have nothing in common, 
then the union of soul and body can be conceived only as a 
mechanical one. The body is to be regarded as a skilfuU}' 
constructed automaton, which God has mJide, — as it were a 
statue or machine formed b}^ God from the earth. Within 
this body the soul dwells, closely but not internally connected 
with it. The union of the two is onl}^ a forcible collocation, 
since each is not only an independent factor, but is essen- 
tially distinct from and even opposed to the other. The bod}^ 
by itself is a perfected machine, in which nothing is changed 
b}" the entrance of the thinking soul, except that thi^ough the 
latter certain motions are originated ; the wheel- work of the 
machine remains as it was. It is only the indwelling thought 
which distinguishes this machine from every other ; hence 
brutes which are not self-conscious must be ranked with all 
other machines. From this standpoint arose the question 
concerning the seat of the soul. If body and soul are inde- 
pendent substances, each essentially opposed to the other, 
they cannot interpenetrate each other, and even if forcibl}' 
brought together can touch onty at one point. This point 
where the soul has its seat, is, according to Descartes, not 
the whole brain but the pineal gland, a small gland in the 
middle of the brain. The proof for this assumption, that the 
pineal gland is the only place where the soul immediately 
exhibits its energy, is found in the circumstance that all other 
parts of the brain are twofold, which should not be the case 
in an organ where the soul lias its seat, since such a structure 
would cause the soul to perceive two objects instead of one. 
There is, therefore, no other place in the bod}^ where impres- 
sions can be so well united as in this gland. The pineal 
gland is, therefore, the chief scat of the soul, and the place 
where all our thoughts are formed. 



DESCAETES. 207 

"We have thus developed the fundamental thoughts of the 
Cartesian system, and will now recapitulate in a few words 
the features characteristic of its standpoint and historic posi- 
tion. Descartes was the founder of a new epoch in philoso- 
ph}^ firsts from his postulate of absolute freedom from all 
preconceptions. This protest against ever}^ thing which is not 
posited by the thought, against taking any thing for granted, 
has remained from that time onward the fundamental prin- 
ciple of the new age. Secondly^ Descartes introduced the 
princii^le of self- consciousness, the pure for-itself-existing 
Ego (the mind or the thinking substance is regarded by him 
as an individual self, a particular Ego) — a new principle, 
unknown under this form to the ancients. Thirdly, He has 
shown the opposition between being and thought, existence 
and consciousness, and declared the mediation of this oppo- 
sition, which has been the problem of all modern philosophy, 
to be the true object of philosophical investigation. But 
with these ideas, which make an epoch in the history of 
philosophy, there are at the same time connected the defects 
of the Cartesian philosophizing. First, Descartes obtained 
the content of his system, particularly his three substances, 
empiricall3^ True, the system which begins with a protest 
against all existence would seem to take nothing for gi'anted, 
but to derive every thing from thought. But in fact this protest 
is not thoroughl}^ carried out. That which seems to be cast 
aside is afterwards, when the principle of certainty is gained, 
taken up again unchanged. And so it happens that Des- 
cartes finds at hand not only the idea of God, but his two 
substances as something immediately given. True, in order 
to reach them, he abstracts from much which lies immedi- 
ately before him, but in the end the two substances are seen 
as the residuum when all else is abstracted. They are re- 
ceived empirically. The second defect is, that Descartes 
separates whollj^ from each other the two sides of the antithe- 
sis, thought and being. He posits both as "substances," 
i.e., as forces which reciprocal repel and negate each other. 



208 A HISTOBY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

The essence of matter according to him consists only in 
extension, ^.e., in pure externality^ and that of mind only 
in thought, i.e., in pure internahty. The two stand over 
against each other as centrifugal and centripetal. But with 
this apprehension of mind and matter, an inner mediation of 
the two is an impossibility ; there must be a powerful creative 
act, there must be the divine assistance in order that the two 
sides may come together, and be united as they are in man. 
Nevertheless Descartes demands and attempts a mediation 
of the two sides. But the impossibility of truty overcoming 
the dualism of his standpoint is the thirds and the chief defect 
of his system. In the proposition " I think, therefore I am," 
or " I exist thinking," the two sides, being and thought, are 
indeed connected together, but only that they may become 
fixed independently of each other. If the question.is asked, 
how does the Ego stand related to the extended ? the answer 
can only be: by thinking, i.e., negatively, by excluding it. 
The idea of God, therefore, is all that remains for tlie media- 
tion of these two sides. The two substances are created b}' 
God, and through the divine will may be bound together; 
througli the idea of God, the Ego attains the certainty that 
the extended exists. God is therefore in a certain degree a 
Deus ex macJiina, necessary in order to effect the union of the 
Ego with the extended. It is obvious how external such a 
mediation is. 

This defect of the Cartesian sj^stem operated as an impell- 
ing motive to the systems which follow. 



GEULINCX AND MALEBEANCHE. 209 

SECTION XXV. 

GEULIKCX AND MALEBEANCHE. 

1. Mind and matter, consciousness and existence, Des- 
cartes had completely separated from each other. Both, with 
him, are substances, independent powers, reciprocally ex- 
clusive opposites. Mind (i.e., in his view the simple self, 
the Ego) he regarded as essentially abstraction from the sen- 
suous, the distinguishing of self from matter and the sepa- 
rating of matter from self; matter, on the other hand, he 
regarded as the complete opposite of thought. If the rela- 
tion of these two powers be as. has been stated, then the 
question arises, how can they ever be connected? How, on 
the one hand, can the affections of the body work upon the 
soul, and on the other hand, how can the volition of the soul 
direct the body, if the two are absolutely distinct and op- 
posed to each other ? At this point, Arnold Geulincx (a dis- 
ciple of Descartes, born at Antwerp 1625, and died as 
professor of philosophy at Leyden 1669) took up the Car- 
tesian system, and endeavored to give it a gi'eater logical 
perfection. According to Geuhncx neither does the soul 
work immediately upon the body, nor the body immediately 
upon the soul. Certainly not the former : for though I can 
determine and move my bod}^ in many respects arbitrarily, yet 
I am not the cause of this movement ; for I know not how it 
happens, I know not in what manner motion is communicated 
from my brain to the different parts of my body, and it is im- 
possible that I should do that in respect of which I cannot see 
how it is done. But if I cannot produce motion in my body, 
much less can I do this outside of my body. I am therefore 
simply a contemplator of the world ; the onl}^ act which is 
peculiarly mine is contemplation. But even this contempla- 
tion arises in a singular manner. For if we ask how we 



210 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

obtain our perceptions of the external world, we find it im- 
possible that the external world should directly give them to 
us. For however much we may say that, e.g.^ in the act of 
seeing, the external objects produce an image in the e3"e or an 
impression in the brain as in wax, yet this impression or pic- 
ture is after all only something corporeal or material, and 
cannot therefore come into my mind, which is absolutely dis- 
tinct from every thing material. There remains, therefore, 
o\\\y that we seek the mediation of the two sides in God. It 
is God alone who can unite the outer with the inner, and the 
inner with the outer ; who can make the outer phenomena to 
become inner representations or notions of the mind ; who 
can thus bring the world under the mind's observation, and 
transform the inner determinations of the will into external 
acts. Hence every operation, everj^ act which unites the 
outer and inner, which brings the mind and the world into 
connection, is neither an activity of the mind nor of the 
world, but onl}" an immediate act of God. The movement 
of m}^ limbs does not follow from mj^ will, but only because 
it is the will of God that these movements should follow when 
I will. My will is an occasion by which God moves my bod}^ 
— an affection of my body is an occasion by which God brings 
within me a representation of the external world : the one is 
only the occasional cause of the other (hence the name occa- 
sionalism). My will, however, does not move God to move 
my limbs, but He who has imparted motion to matter and 
given it its laws, created also my will, and has so connected 
together these most diverse things, the movement of matter 
and the arbitrium of my will, that when my will puts forth a 
volition, such a motion follows as it wills, and the motion 
follows the volition without any interaction or phj^sical influ- 
ence exerted by the one upon the other. But just as with 
two clocks which go exactly alike, the one striking precisely as 
the other, their harmony is not the result of any reciprocal 
interacting, but is the result of their similar construction and 
adjustment, — so is it with tlie movements of the body and 



GEULINCX AND MALEBEANCHE. 211 

the will, they harmonize only because their sublime artificer 
has in some inexplicable way connected them together. We 
see from this that Geulincx carried to its limit the fundamen- 
tal dualism of Descartes. While Descartes called the union 
of mind and matter a conjunction through power, Geulincx 
named it a miracle. There is consequentlj^ in this view no 
immanent, but only a transcendent mediation possible. 

2. Closely connected with this view of Geulincx, and at 
the same time a real consequence and a wider development 
of the Cartesian philosophizing, is the philosophic standpoint 
of Nicolas Malebranche (born at Paris in 1638, chosen a 
member of the " Congregation de Voratoire'^ in his twenty- 
second year, won over to x)hilosophy through the writings of 
Descartes, and died, after numerous feuds with theological 
opponents, in 1715). 

Malebranche started with the Cartesian view of the relation 
between mind and matter. Both are strictly distinct from 
each other, and in their essence opposed. How now does 
the mind (i.e., the Ego) gain a knowledge of the external 
world and have ideas of corporeal things ? For only under 
the spiritual form of ideas can external, especially material, 
things be present in the mind ; the mind does not possess the 
thing itself but onty an idea of it ; the thing itself remains 
always external. Now the mind can neither gain these ideas 
from itself, nor from the things themselves. Not from itself; 
for to the soul, as a limited being, a capacity for producing 
the ideas of things j)urely from itself, cannot be ascribed ; 
that which is merely an idea of the soul does not, for that 
very reason exist actually^ and that which exists actually does 
not depend for its existence and perception upon the choice 
of the soul ; the ideas of things are given to us, they are not 
products of our thought. Just as little has the mind derived 
these ideas from things themselves ; for it is unthinkable that 
material things should produce impressions upon the soul 
which is immaterial ; not to mention that these infinitely 
numerous and various impressions would in their coinci- 



212 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

dences reciprocal!}' annul and destroy one another. It onty re- 
mains, therefore, that the mind beholds things in a third that 
stands above the opposition of the two, viz., God. God, as 
the absolute substance comprehends all things in himself ; in 
himself he sees all things according to their true being and 
natm-e. For the same reason, in him are also the ideas of 
all things ; the whole world, as intellectual or ideal, is God. 
God is, therefore, the higher mean between the Ego and the 
external world. In him w^e behold ideas, we being so strictly 
united with him, that he maj' properl}^ be called the place of 
minds. From him proceed also our volitions and sensations 
relative to things ; he unites the objective and subjective 
worlds which in themselves are separate and disjoined. 

The philosophy of Malebranche, whose simple thought is 
this, that we know and see all things in God, — shows itself 
to be, like the occasionalism of Geulincx, a special attempt 
to overcome the dualism of the Cartesian philosophy on its 
own ground and b}- means of its own fundamental assump- 
tions. 

3. Two defects or inner contradictions have manifested 
themselves in the philosoph}- of Descartes. He had consid- 
ered mind and matter as substances, as mutually exclusive 
opposites, and had sought a mediation of the two. But with 
such presuppositions no mediation other than an external 
one is possible. If thought and existence are separate sub- 
stances then the}' can only negate and exclude each other. 
Unnatural theories, like those which have been mentioned, are 
the inevitable result of this. The simplest wa}' out of the 
difliculty is to give up the princii)le first assumed, to strip off 
their independence from the two opposites, and instead of 
regarding them as substances, view them as accidents of one 
substance. This wa}* of escape is moreover indicated by a 
l)articular circumstance. According to Descartes, God is 
the infinite substance, the only substance in the proper sense 
of the word. Mind and matter are indeed substances, but 
only in relation to each other : in relation to God they are 



SPINOZA. 213 

dependent, and not substances. This is, strictly taken, a 
contradiction. The true consequence were rather to say 
that neither the Ego {i.e.^ the individual thinker) nor the ma- 
terial things are self-subsistent, but that this can be predicated 
only of the one substance, God ; this substance alone has a 
real being, and all the being which belongs to individual es- 
sences these latter possess not as a substantial being, but 
only as accidents of the one only true and real substance. 
Malebranche approached this conclusion. With him the cor- 
poreal world is ideally at least resolved and made to sink in 
God, in whom are the eternal archetj'pes of all things. But 
Spinoza most decidedly and logically adopted tliis conse- 
quence, and affirmed the accidence of all individual being 
and the exclusive substantiality of God alone. His system 
is the perfection and the truth of the Cartesian. 



SECTION XXVI. 

\ SPINOZA. 

Baruch or Benedict Spinoza was born at Amsterdam, 
Nov. 24, 1632. His parents who were Jews of Portuguese 
descent, and wealthy tradespeople, gaA^e him a finished edu- 
cation. He studied with great diligence the Bible and the 
Talmud, but soon exchanged the pursuit of theology for the 
study of pln'sics and the works of Descartes. He early be- 
came dissatisfied with Judaism, and presentl}' came to an 
open rupture with it, though without going over formally to 
Christianity. In order to escape the persecutions of the 
Jews, who had excommunicated him, and who even went so 
far as to make an attempt upon his life, he left Amsterdam 



214 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

and betook himself to Rhynsberg, near Le3'den. He finally 
settled down at the Hague, where he spent his life in the 
greatest seclusion, devoted wholly to scientific pursuits. He 
supported himself by grinding optical glasses, which his 
friends sold for him. The Elector Palatine, Charles Louis, 
offered him a Professorship of Philosoph}^ at Heidelberg, 
with the full permission to teach as he chose, but Spinoza 
declined the post. Naturally of a weak constitution, which 
consumption had for many 3'ears been undermining, Spinoza 
died at the age of 44, on the 21st of Februar}^ 1677. In 
his life there was mirrored the unclouded clearness and 
exalted serenit}^ of the perfected sage. Abstemious in his 
habits, satisfied with little, the master of his passions, never 
intemperately sad or joyous, gentle and benevolent, with a 
character of singular excellence and purit}', he faithfully 
illustrated in his life the doctrines of his philosoph3% His 
chief work, the EtJiica^ appeared the 3'ear of his death. His 
design was probabl}^ to have published it during his life, 
but the odious report that he was an atheist restrained him. 
The friend he most trusted, Louis Ma3'er, a pln'sician, at- 
tended to its publication after the author's death and accord- 
ing to his will. 

The S3'stem of Spinoza rests upon three fundamental con- 
ceptions, from which all the rest ma3^ be derived with mathe- 
matical necessity. These conceptions are that of substance, 
of attribute, and of mode. 

1. Spinoza starts from the Cartesian conception of sub- 
stance : substance is that which needs nothing other for its 
existence. But this definition admits of the existence of onl3' 
one substance. That which exists through itself alone is 
necessarily infinite, since it is neither conditioned nor limited 
1)3^ an3' thing else. Existence-through-self is the absolute 
power to exist which can neither depend upon an3'' other, nor 
find in any other a limit or negation of itself; onl3' an unlim- 
ited being is self-subsistent, substantial being. A pluralit3" 
of iiidiiites, however, is impossible since they would be indis- 



SPINOZA. 215 

tinguishable. The plurality of substances which Descartes 
assumed is, therefore, necessarily a contradiction. Onl}^ one 
absolutely infinite substance can exist. But such a self-exist- 
ent substance is presupposed by the given finite reality. It 
would be contradictory to suppose that only the finite exists 
and not the infinite as well ; that there exists only that which 
is conditioned and posited through another, and not also that 
which is self-subsistent. The absolute substance is rather 
the real cause of each and every existence ; it alone is actual, 
unconditioned being ; it is the sole power of being from which 
every finite thing derives its existence ; without it there is 
nothing, with it every thing ; in it is comprehended all real- 
ity, since beside it there can be no self-subsistent being ; it 
is not only the cause of all being, but is itself all being ; all 
particular existence is only a modification of the universal 
substance itself, which by virtue of an inner necessity ex- 
pands its own infinite reality into an equally infinite quan- 
tity of being which includes within itself all conceivable forms 
of existence. This single substance Spinoza calls God. We 
must not, of course, understand by this the Christian idea 
of God, i.e., the conception of an individual spiritual person- 
ality. Spinoza expressly declares that he entertains a con- 
ception of God which is entirely distinct from the Christian. 
He strenuously asserts that all existence, material existence 
as well, springs immediately from the nature of God as the 
one substance. He ridicules those who see in the world any 
thing else than an accident of the divine substance itself. In 
their views he detects a dualism which would destroy the 
necessary unity of all thhigs, and an attribution of self-exist- 
ence to the world, which would annul the universal causality 
of God. The world is not a product of the divine will, co- 
existent with God and free, but an emanation of the divine 
nature according to his infinite creative essence. God is, 
with him, only substance, and nothing more. The proposi- 
tions that there is only one God, and that the substance of 
all things is only one, are with him identical. 



216 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

"\V]iat now peculiar^ is this substance ? What is its posi- 
tive nature ? This question is very difficult to answer directly 
from the standpoint of Spinoza, partly because a definition, 
according to him, must contain (i.e., must be genetically) the 
immediate cause of that which is to be explained, but sub- 
stance is uncreated and can have no cause besides itself; but 
prominentl}' because Spinoza held that every determination 
is a negation, since it must indicate a want of existence, a 
relative not-being. ( Omnis determinatio est negatio is an ex- 
pression which, though he uses it only occasional^, expresses 
the fundamental idea of his whole sj^stem.) Hence, by en- 
deavoring to determine it positively, we onl}^ take away from 
substance its infinity and make it finite. When, therefore, we 
affirm an}^ thing concerning it, we only speak negatively, e.g., 
that it has no external cause, that it is not a manifold, that it 
cannot be divided, etc. It is even reluctantly that Spinoza 
declares concerning it that it is one, for this predicate might 
readily be taken numericallj', as impl3'ing that others, the 
many, stood over against it. Thus there can remain onl}^ 
such positive affirmations respecting it as express its absolute 
reference to itself. In this sense Spinoza says that substance 
is the cause of itself, i.e., its essence involves existence. 
When Spinoza calls it eternal, it is only another expression 
for the same thought ; for by eternity he understands exist- 
ence itself, so far as it is conceived to follow from the defini- 
tion of the thing, in a sense similar to that in which geome- 
tricians speak of the eternal properties of figures. Still 
farther he calls substance infinite in so far as the conception 
of infinit}^ expressed to him the conception of true being, the 
absolute affirmation of existence. So also the expression, 
God is free, affirms nothing more than those already men- 
tioned, viz., negatively, that every foreign restraint is ex- 
cluded from him, and positively, that God is in harmony with 
himself, that liis being corresponds to the laws of his nature. 

The comprehensive statement for the above is, that there 
exists one infinite substance which excludes from itself all 



SPIKOZA. 217 

determination and negation, the one being in all existence, 
and is named God. 

2. Besides the infinite substance of God, Descartes had 
assumed two other substances created by God, viz., mind 
(thought) and matter (extension) . These are also with Spi- 
noza the two fundamental forms under which he subsumes all 
realit}^ the two " attributes" under which the one substance, 
in so far as it is the cause of all reality, reveals itself to us. 
What, now, is the relation of these attributes to the infinite 
substance? This is the severe question, the Achilles' heel 
of Spinoza's system. The essence of the substance itself 
cannot be wholl}^ merged in them ; for if it were, it would 
become finite, limited, — which contradicts the definition of 
substance as stated above. If then these two attributes do 
not exhaust the objective essence of the substance, they can 
only be the determinations in which the in itself infinite sub- 
stance exhibits itself to the subjective understanding, for 
which ever}^ thing is either thought or extension. And this 
is, in fact, the opinion of Spinoza. Attribute, according to 
him, is that which the understanding perceives in the sub- 
stance as constituting its essence. The two attributes are, 
therefore, determinations which manifest the substance in 
these precise forms only for the perceiving understanding. 
Since substance itself is not exhausted by such determinate 
modes of being, these attributes can express the essence of 
substance only for an understanding which exists apart from 
it. To the substance itself it is indiff"erent whether the under- 
standing contemplate it under these two attributes or not ; 
the substance in itself has an infinity of attributes, i.e., every 
possible attribute which is not a limitation, may be predicated 
of it ; it is only the human understanding which attaches 
these two attributes to the substance, and it aflSxes no more 
than these, because, among all the conceptions it can form, 
these alone are actuall}^ positive, or express a realit3^ God, 
or the substance, is therefore thinking, in so far as the under- 
standing contemplates him under the attribute of thought, 
10 



218 A HISTOEY OP PHILOSOPHY. 

and is extended in so far as the understanding contemplates 
Mm under the attribute of extension. In a word, the two 
attributes are empirically derived determinations which are 
inadequate to the nature of the substance itself: the substance 
remains behind them as the absolutely infinite which cannot 
be comprehended under such definite conceptions; they do 
not explain what substance is in itself, and hence, in reference 
to substance, appear accidental. Spinoza fails to establish 
any mediation between the notion of the absolute substance 
and the particular manner in which it manifests itself in the 
two attributes. 

In relation to each other, the attributes are, as with Des- 
cartes, to be taken as antithetical. The}^ are, it is true, 
attributes of one and the same substance ; but each attribute 
is independent, — as completely independent as the sub- 
stance itself whose essence it realiter manifests. Between 
thought and extension, between the spiritual and the mate- 
rial worlds, there is no reciprocal influence nor interaction : 
that which is material can have only a material, and that 
wliich is spiritual {e.g., thoughts, volitions, etc.) can have 
only a spiritual source. Hence, neither can the mind work 
upon the bod}^ nor the bod}^ upon the mind. Thus far, there- 
fore, Spinoza adheres to the Cartesian separation of matter 
and mind. But when referred to the notion of a single sub- 
stance, both worlds, the spiritual and material, are just as 
truly one and the same ; there exists between them a com- 
plete agreement, a perfect parallelism. It is one and the 
same substance which is conceived under each of the two 
attributes ; and under whichever of the two it may be con- 
sidered it is mercl}^ one and the same substance manifested 
under different forms of existence. " The idea of the circle 
and the circle itself are one and the same thing, only in the 
first case it is conceived under the attributes of thought, in 
the second under that of extension." From the one sub- 
stance there proceeds, in fact, only one infinite series of 
things ; but it is a series of things existing under various 



SPINOZA. 219 

forms, as these are expressed in the attributes. Everj^ thing 
exists, as does substance itself, as well under the ideal form 
of thought, as under the real form of extension. For every 
spiritual form there is a corresponding material one, and for 
every material form a corresponding s]piritual one. Nature and 
spirit are indeed distinct, but not unrelated ; they are every- 
where united as type and antit}'pe, as thing and conception, 
as object and subject, — in which latter the object mirrors 
itself, or the real ideaUter reflects itself. The world could 
not be the product of one substance, if these two elements, 
being and thought, were not at each point united in it in in- 
separable identity. To this inseparable unity of the spiritual 
and material elements, which, according to him, pervades all 
nature, though in different degrees of perfection, Spinoza 
refers, in particular, the relation between the body and the 
soul of man. This problem which, from the Cartesian stand- 
point was so difficult, so insoluble, receives from him a very 
simple explanation. In man, as ever^^where else, extension 
and thought (the latter, indeed, not merely as feeling and 
imagination, but as self-conscious, rational thought) are in- 
separably united. Mind is the consciousness which has for 
its object the body associated with it, and, through the me- 
dium of the body, the rest of the material world in so far as 
it affects the bod}*. The bodj^ is the real organism whose 
states and affections are consciously reflected in the soul. 
But any interaction of the two is for this very reason impos- 
sible ; soul and bod}- are the same thing, viewed in different 
ways, — on the one hand as conscious thought, and on the 
other as material, extended being. They are only formally 
distinct, in so far as the being and life of the body, i.e., the 
impressions, movements, activities, which are determined 
solely by the laws of the material organism, spontaneously 
coincide in the soul with the unit}^ of consciousness, concep- 
tion, and thought. 

3. Individual things, which considered under the attribute 
of thought are ideas, and under the attribute of extension are 



220 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

bodies, Spinoza comprehends under the conception of acci- 
dence, or, as he calls it, mode. By modes we are therefore 
to understand the various individual forms of existence into 
which the universal being of the substance is sundered. The 
modes stand related to the substance as the rippling waves 
of the sea to the water of the sea, as forms constantly dis- 
appearing and never having a real being. The finite has no 
independent existence in itself; it exists because the unre- 
strained productive activity of the substance spontaneously 
produces an infinite variet}^ of particular finite forms ; it has, 
however, no proper reality, it exists only in and through the 
substance. Finite things are the most external, the last, 
the most subordinate forms of existence into which the uni- 
versal life is specialized ; and they manifest their finitude in 
that they are without resistance subjected to the infinite chain 
of causality which binds the world. The divine substance 
works freely according to the inner essence of its own nature ; 
individuals, however, are not free but are subject to the in- 
fluences of those things with which they come in contact. 
Their finitude consists in being determined not through them- 
selves, but through something other than themselves. They 
constitute the sphere of pure necessity within which each in- 
dividual is free and independent of the others only in so far 
as it has from nature the power to maintain its own existence 
and the stability of its own peculiar being. 

Such are the fundamental thoughts and features of Spino- 
za's S3'stem. His practical philosophy 3'et remains to be char- 
acterized, and in a few words. Its chief propositions follow 
necessarily from the metaphysical grounds already cited. 
First, it follows from these, that what is called free will can- 
not be admitted. For since man is only a mode, he, like 
every other mode, stands in an endless scries of conditioning- 
causes, and no free will can therefore be predicated of him. 
The will lilce every otlier corporeal activity must be deter- 
mined by something, either Ijy impressions of external things 
(representations) or b}' its own inner nature (impulses). 



SPINOZA. 221 

Men regard themselves as free only because the}' are con- 
scious of their actions and not of the determining causes. 
Just so the notions which one commonly connects with the 
words good and evil, rest on an error as follows at once from 
the conception of the absolute divine causalit}'. Good and 
evil are not something actually in the things themselves, but 
onl}" express relative conceptions which we have formed from 
a comparison of things with one another. Thus, by observ- 
ing certain things we form a certain universal conception, 
which we thereupon treat as though it were the rule for the 
being and acting of all individuals, and if an}^ individual 
varies from this conception we fancy that it does not corre- 
spond to its nature, and is incomplete. Evil or sin is there- 
fore only relative, not positive, for nothing happens against 
God's will. It is only a sunple negation or deprivation, 
which only seems to be a reality in our representation. 
With God there is no idea of the evil. What is therefore 
good and what evil ? That is good which is useful to us, and 
that evil which hinders us from partaking of a good. That, 
moreover, is useful to us which brings us to a greater reality, 
which preserves and exalts our being. But our true being 
is knowledge ; knowledge is the essence of our spirit ; knowl- 
edge alone makes us free, i.e., gives us the impulse and the 
power to counteract the influences which external things 
exert upon us, to determine our action according to the law 
of the rational preservation and promotion of our being, to 
place ourselves as regards all things in a relation adequate 
to our own nature. Hence that only is useful to us which 
aids us in knowing ; the highest knowledge is the knowledge 
of God ; the highest virtue of the mind is to know and love 
God. From the knowledge of God we gain the highest glad- 
ness and joy of the mind, the highest blessedness. Blessed- 
ness, therefore, is not the reward of virtue, but virtue itself. 

The grand feature of Spinoza's philosophy is that it buries 
every thing individual and particular, as finite, in the abyss 
of the divine substance. With its view unalterably fixed 



222 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

upon the eternal one, it loses sight of eveiy thing which seems 
actual in the ordinary notions of men. But its defect con- 
sists in its inabilit}' to transfonn this negative ab3'ss of sub- 
stance into the positive gi'ound of all being and becoming. 
The substance of Spinoza has been justty compared to the 
lair of a lion, which man}' footsteps enter, but from which 
none emerge. The existence of the phenomenal world, 
though it be onl}' the apparent and deceptive reality of the 
finite, Spinoza does not explain ; we fail to see why this world 
of void appearances exists ; a living connection between God 
and the world is lacking. Substance is merel}' a principle 
of unit}' and not also a principle of distinction. Reflec- 
tion moves from the finite to the absolute, but not from the 
absolute to the finite ; it comprehends the manifold in God as 
an impersonal unity ; it sacrifices all individual existence to 
the negative thought of unit}', instead of allowing this unity 
to negate its empty negativity by means of a living develop- 
ment into the concrete manifold. The system of Spinoza 
is the most abstract Monotheism that can be thought. It is 
not accidental that its author, a Jew, should have brought out 
again this view of the world, tliis view of absolute identity, 
for it is in a certain degree with him only a consequence of 
his national religion — an echo of the Orient. 



SECTION XXVII. 



IDEALISINI AND REALISM. 



We have now reached a point of divergence in the devel- 
opment of philosophy. Descartes had affirmed and attempted 
to mediate the opposition between thought and being, mind 
and matter. This mediation, liowever, was hardly success- 
ful, for the two sides of the opposition he had fixed in their 



IDEALISM AND EEALISM. 223 

widest separation, when he posited them as two substances 
or powers, which reciprocally negate each other. The fol- 
lowers of Descartes sought a more satisfactor}' mediation, but 
the theories to which they saw themselves driven, only indi- 
cated the more clearly that the premise from which they 
started must be altogether abandoned. At length Spinoza 
abandoned this false presupposition, and took away its sub- 
stantiality from each of the two opposed principles. Mind 
and matter, thought and extension, are now one in the infi- 
nite substance. Yet they are not one m themselves, which 
would be the only true unity of the two. That they are one 
in the substance is of little avail, since they are indifferent to 
the substance, and are not immanent distinctions in it. Thus 
even with Spinoza the two remain strictly separate. The 
ground of this isolation we find in the fact that Spinoza him- 
self did not sufficiently renounce the Cartesian postulate, and 
thus could not escape the Cartesian dualism. With him, as 
with Descartes, thought is only thought, and extension only 
extension, and in such an apprehension of the two, the one 
necessarily excludes the other. If we would find an inner 
mediation for the two, this abstraction must be overcome. 
The opposite sides must be mediated even in their strictest 
opposition. To do this, two wnjs alone were possible. A 
position could be taken either on the material or on the ideal 
side, and the attempt made to explain the ideal by the mate- 
rial, or the material by the ideal, comprehending one through 
the other. Both these attempts were in fact made, and at 
about the same time. The two parallel courses of a one- 
sided idealism, and a one-sided realism (Empiricism, Sen- 
sualism, Materialism) , now begin their development. 



224 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION XXVIII. 

LOCKE. 

The founder of the realistic course and the father of mod- 
ern Epii'icism and Materialism, is John Locke ^ an English- 
man. He had, indeed, in his countrj-man, Thomas Hobbes 
(1588-1679), a predecessor, whom, however, we need merelj' 
mention here, since his significance consists chiefly in his 
influence upon the history of political science. 

John Locke was born at Wrington, 1632. His student 
3^ears he devoted to philosophy and especially to medicine, 
though his weak health prevented him from practising as a 
physician. Few cares of business interrupted his leisure, 
and he devoted his time mostlj^ to literary" pursuits. His 
friendly relations with Lord Ashle}', afterwards Earl of 
Shaftesbury, exerted a weighty influence upon his course in 
life. At the house of tliis distinguished statesman and author 
he alwa3's found the most cordial reception, and intercourse 
with the most important men of England. In the j'ear 1670 
he sketched for a number of friends the first plan of his 
famous Essay concerning Human Understanding^ though the 
completed work did not appear till 1690. Locke died aged 72 
in the j^ear 1704. His 's^Titings are characterized b}^ clearness 
and precision, perspicuity and definiteness. More acute than 
profound in his philophizing, he does not in this respect belie 
the peculiarities of his nation. The fundamental thoughts 
and results of his philosophy have now become common 
property, especially among the English ; but it should not 
for this reason be forgotten that he is the first who has scien- 
tifically established them, and is, on this account, entitled to 
a true place in the history of philosoph}', even though his 
principle was wanting in an inner capacit}^ for development. 

Locke's Philosophy (i.e., his theory of knowledge, for his 



LOCKE. 225 

whole philosophizing expends itself in investigating the fac- 
ulty of cognition) rests upon two thoughts, to which he never 
ceases to revert : first (negatively) , there are no innate ideas ; 
second (positive^) , all our knowledge originates in experi- 
ence. 

Many, sa3's Locke, suppose that there are innate ideas 
which the soul receives coetaneously with its origin, and 
brings with it into the world. In order to prove that these 
ideas are innate, it is said that they universally exist, and 
are universall}" valid with all men. But admitting that this 
were so, such a fact would prove nothing if this universal 
harmon}' could be explained in any other way. But men 
mistake w^hen they claim this to be a fact. There are, in 
realit}^, no fundamental propositions, theoretical or practical, 
which are universally admitted. Certainly there is no such 
practical principle, "for the example of different peoples and 
especially of different ages shows that there is no moral rule 
universally admitted as valid. Neither is there a theoretical 
one ; for even those propositions which might lay the strong- 
est claim to be universally valid, e.^,, the proposition, — 
" w^hat is, is," or — "it is impossible that one and the same 
thing should be and not be at the same time," — receive b}- 
no means a universal assent. Chilch'en and idiots have no 
notion of these principles, and even uncultivated men know 
nothing of these abstract propositions. They cannot there- 
fore have been imprinted on all men b}' nature. If ideas , 
were innate, then they must be known by all from earliest ; 
childhood. For "to be in the understanding," and "to be- . 
come known," is one and the same thing. The assertion, \^ 
therefore, that these ideas are imprinted on the understand- 
ing while it does not know it, is a manifest contradiction, i 
Just as little is gained by the subterfuge, that these princi- ' 
pies come into the consciousness so soon as men use their 
reason. This affirmation is directly false, for these maxims 
which are called universal come into the consciousness much 
later than a great deal of other knowledge ; and children, 



226 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

e.g.^ give many proofs of theii' use of reason before they 
know that it is impossible that a thing should be and at the 
same time not be. It is onh' coiTect to say that no one be- 
comes conscious of these propositions without reasoning, — 
but to sa}' that thej' are all known with the first reasoning 
is false. Moreover, that which is fh'st known is not universal 
propositions, but relates to individual impressions. The child 
knows that sweet is not bitter long before he understands the 
logical principle of conti'adiction. He who carefull}' be- 
thinks himself, will hesitate before he affii'ms that particular 
dicta as ' ' sweet is not bitter," ai'e derived from universal 
ones. If the universal propositions were innate, then must 
they be the first in the consciousness of the child ; for that 
which nature has stamped upon the human soul must come 
into consciousness antecedently to any thing which she has 
not written there. Consequentl}', if there* ai'e no innate ideas, 
either theoretical or practical, there can be just as tiailj^ no 
innate art nor science. The understanding (or the soul) is 
essentially a tabula rasa, — a blank and void space, a tablet 
on which nothing is written. 

How now does the understandhig become possessed of 
ideas ? Only through experience, upon which all knowledge 
rests, and on which as its principle all knowledge depends. 
Experience itself is twofold ; either it arises thi*ough the per- 
ception of external objects by means of the senses, in which 
case we call it sensation ; or it is a perception of the activities 
of our own understanding, in which case it is named the inner 
sense, or, better, reflection. Sensation and reflection give to 
the understanding all its ideas ; the}' are the windows tlii'ough 
which alone the light of ideas falls upon the naturall}' dark 
space of the mind ; external objects furnish us with the ideas 
of sensible qualities, and the inner object, which is the under- 
standing itself, offers us the ideas of its own activities. To 
show the derivation and to give an explanation of all the 
ideas derived from both is the problem of the Lockian phi- 
losophy. For this end Locke divides ideas (representations) 



LOCKE. 227 

into simple and compound. Simple ideas are those which 
are impressed from without upon the understanding while it 
remains wholl}^ passive, just as the images of objects are 
reflected in a mirror. These simple ideas are partly such as 
come to the understanding through a particular sense, e.g.^ 
the ideas of color, which are fui-nished to the mind thi'ough 
the ej^e, or those of sound, which come to it through the ear, 
or those of sohdity or impenetrabUitj', which we receive 
through the touch ; parti}' such as a number of senses have 
combined to give us, as those of space and of motion, of 
which we become conscious by means of the sense both of 
touch and of sight ; partly such as we receive through reflec- 
tion, as the idea of thought and of will ; and partly, in fine, 
such as arise from both sensation and reflection combined, 
e.g.^ power, unit}', etc. These simple ideas form the material, 
as it were the letters of all our knowledge. But now as lan- 
guage arises from a manifold combination of letters, sj'llables, 
and words, so the understanding forms complex ideas b}' the 
manifold combination of simple ideas with each other. The 
complex ideas may be referi'ed to thi'ee classes, a-Iz., the 
ideas of mode, of substance, and of relation. Under the 
ideas of mode, Locke considers the modifications of space 
(as distance, measurement, immensity, surface, figure, etc.), 
of time (as dm-ation, eternit}'), of thought (perception, 
memory, abstraction, etc.), of number, power, etc. Special 
attention is given b}' Locke to the conception of substance. 
He explains the origin of this conception in this way, viz., 
we find both in sensation and reflection, that a certain num- 
ber of simple ideas seem often to be connected together. But 
as we cannot divest om'selves of the impression that these 
simple ideas have not been produced thi'ough themselves, we 
are accustomed to furnish them with a gi'ound in some exist- 
ing substi^atum, which we indicate with the word substance. 
Substance is something unknown, and is conceived of as pos- 
sessing those qualities which are necessary to furnish us with 
simple ideas. But from the fact that substance is a product 



228 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

of our subjective thinking, it does not follow that it has no 
existence outside of ourselves. On the contrary, this is dis- 
tinguished from all other complex ideas in the fact that this is 
an idea which has its archetj^pe distinct from ourselves, and 
possesses objective reality, while other complex ideas are 
formed by the mind at pleasure, and have no reality corres- 
ponding to them external to the mind. We do not know 
what is the archetype of substance, and of the substance itself 
we are acquainted only with its attributes. From considering 
the conception of substance, Locke next passes to the idea 
of relation. A relation arises when the understanding has 
connected two things with each other, in such a wa}', that 
from the consideration of one it is inevitabl}^ led to the con- 
sideration of the other. Every thing is capable of being 
brought b}' the understanding into relation, or what is the 
same thing, of being transformed into something relative. It 
is consequently impossible to enumerate the sum of possible 
relations. Hence Locke treats only of some of the more 
weightj' conceptions of relation, among others, that of iden- 
tit}' and difference, but especially that of cause and effect. 
The idea of cause and effect arises when our understanding- 
perceives that an}^ thing whatsoever, be it substance or quality, 
begins to exist through the activit}^ of another. So much 
concerning ideas. The combination of ideas among them- 
selves gives the conception of cognition. Hence knowledge 
stands in the same relation to the simple and complex ideas 
as a ^proposition does to the letters, s^'llables, and words which 
compose it. From this it follows that our knowledge does 
not pass beyond the compass of our ideas, and hence that it 
is bounded by experience. 

These are the prominent thoughts in the Lockian philoso- 
phy. Its empiricism is clear as dtx^y. The mind, according 
to it, is in itself void, and orAj a mirror of the outer world, 
— a camera ohscura which passivel}^ receives the images of 
external objects ; its whole content consists in the impressions 
furnished it b}- material things. Nihil est in intellectic quod 



HUME. 229 

non fuerlt in sensu — is the watchword of this standpoint, j 
While Locke, hj this proposition, expresses the undoubted 
preponderance of the material over the intellectual, he does 
so still more decisiveh' when he declares that it is possible I 
and even probable that the mind is a material substance. ^ 
He does not admit the reverse possibility, that material things 
may be classed under the intellectual as a special kind. 
Hence with him mind is the secondary to matter ; and hence \ 
he is seen to take the characteristic standpoint of reahsm (c/. 
§ XXYII.). It is true that Locke was not always logically 
consistent, and in man}' points did not thoroughly carry out 
Ms empiricism : but we can clearly see that the road which 
will be taken in the farther development of this direction, will 
result in a thorough denial of the ideal factor. 

The empiricism of Locke, wholl}' national as it is, soon be- 
came the ruling philosoph}' in England. Standing on its 
basis we find Isaac Neicton^ the great mathematician (1642- 
1727), Samuel Clarke, a disciple of Newton, whose chief at- 
tention was given to moral philosophy (1675-1729), the Eng- 
lish moralists of this period, William Wollaston (1659-1724), 
the Earl of Shaftesbury (1671-1713) , Francis Hutcheson (1695 
-1747), and even some opponents of Locke, 2i^ Peter Browne, 
who died 1735. 



SECTION XXIX. 

HUME. 

As ah'ead}' remarked, Locke had not been wholl}' consistent 
with the standpoint of empmcism. Though conceding to 
material objects a decided superiority above the thinking sub- 
ject, there was 3-et one point, viz., the recognition of sub- 
stance, where he claimed for thought a power above the 
objective world. Among all the complex ideas which are 



230 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

formed by the subjecti\'e thinking, the idea of substance is, 
according to Locke, the onl}' one which has objective reality- ; 
all the rest being pm-elj subjective, with nothing actually cor- 
respondhig to them in the objective world. But in the ver}' 
fact that the subjective thinking ^Dlaces the conception of sub- 
stance, which it has formed, in the objective world, it affirms 
an objective relation of things, an objective connection of 
them one ^ith another, and an existing rationalit}'. The 
reason of the subject in this respect stands in a certain de- 
gree above the objective world ; for the relation of substan- 
tialit}^ is not derived immediately from the world of sense, 
and is no product of sensation nor of perception through the 
sense. On a pm*e empuical standpoint — and such was 
Locke's — it was therefore illogical to allow the conception of 
substance to remain possessed of objective validit3^ If the 
understanding is essentially a bare and empty space, an un- 
written tablet, if its whole content of objective knowledge 
consists in the impressions made upon it b}^ material things, 
then must the conception of substance also be explained as a 
mere subjective notion, a union of ideas joined together at 
the mind's pleasure, and the subject itself, thus deprived of 
every thing on which it could base a claim to superiorit}', 
must become wholly subordinated to the material world. 
This stride to a logical empmcism Hume made in his criticism 
of the conception of causalitj^ 

David Hume was born at Edinburgh 1711. Devoted in 
youth to the stud}' of law, then for some time a merchant, he 
afterwards gave his attention exclusively to philosoph}' and 
history. His first literar}' attempt was hardly noticed. A 
more favorable reception was, however, given to his " ^s- 
says,'' — of which he published different collections from 1742 
to 1757, making in all five volumes. In these Hume treated 
philosophical themes as a thoughtful and cultivated man of 
the world, but without any strict systematic connection. In 
1752 he was elected to the care of a public hbrar^' in Edin- 
biu'gh, and began in this same year his famous history of 



HUME. 231 

England. Afterwards he was appointed secretar}^ of legation 
at Paris, where he became acquainted with Eousseau. In 
1767 he became under secretary of state, an office, however, 
which he filled for onl}' a brief period. His last jxars were 
spent in Edinburgh, in a quiet and contented seclusion. He 
died 1776. 

The centre of Hume's philosojohizing is his criticism of the 
conception of causality. Locke had already expressed the 
thought that we attain the conception of substance only by 
the hahit of alwaj^s seeing certain modes together. Hume 
takes up this thought with earnestness. Whence do we 
know, he asks, that two things stand to each other in the 
relation of cause and effect? We do not know it a priori^ 
for since the effect is different from the cause, while knowl- 
edge a priori embraces only that which is identical, the effect 
cannot be discovered in the cause ; neither do we know it 
through experience, for experience reveals to us only the suc- 
cession in time of two facts. All om' conclusions from expe- 
rience, therefore, rest simply upon habit. Because we are in 
the habit of seeing that one thing is followed in time by an- 
other, do we form the notion that the latter must follow the 
former : we transform the relation of succession into the 
relation of causalit}' ; but a connection in time is naturally 
something other than a causal connection. Hence, with the 
conception of causaUty, we transcend that which is given in 
perception and form for ourselves, notions to which we are 
properl}^ not entitled. — That w^hich is true of causality is 
true of ever}- necessar}^ relation. We find within us concep- 
tions, as those of power and expression, and in general that 
of necessary connection ; but let us note how we attain these : 
not through sensation, "for though external objects seem to us 
to have coetaneousness of being, they show us no necessary 
connection. Do they then come through reflection? True, 
it seems as if we might get the idea of power by seeing that 
the organs of our body move in consequence of the dictate 
of our mind. But since we do not know the means through 



232 A mSTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

which the mind works, and smce all the organs of the body 
cannot be moved by the will, it follows, that we are pointed 
to experience in reference to this activit}^ also ; but since 
experience can show us only a frequent conjunction, but no 
real connection, it follows that we arrive at the conception 
of power, as of every necessar}' connection, only because we 
are accustomed to certain transitions in our ideas. All con- 
ceptions which express a relation of necessit}', all knowledge 
presumptive of a real objective connection of things, rests 
therefore ultimatel}" onl}' upon the association of ideas. Hav- 
ing denied the conception of substance, Hume was led also 
to deny that of the Ego or self. If the Ego or self really 
exists, it must be a substance possessing inherent qualities. 
But since our conception of substance is purel}^ subjective, 
without objective reality, it follows that there is no reality 
corresponding to our conception of the self or the Ego. The 
self or the Ego is, in fact, nothing other than a compound 
of man}^ notions following rapidh' upon each other ; and under 
this compound we lay a conceived substratum, which we call 
soul, self. Ego. The self, or the Ego, rests wholh^ on an 
illusion. Of course, with such premises, nothing can be said 
of the immortality of the soul. If the soul is onl}' the com- 
pound of our notions, it necessarity ceases with the notions 
— that which is compounded of the movements of the body 
dies with those movements. 

There needs no further proof, than simply to utter these 
chief thoughts of Hume, to show that his scepticism is onl}^ a 
logical carrj'ing out of Locke's empiricism. The determina- 
tions universality and necessity must fall away, if we derive 
our knowledge only from perceptions through the sense ; for 
these determinations cannot be contained in sensation. 



CONDILLAC. 233 

SECTION XXX. 

CONDILLAC. 

The French took up the i;)roblem of carrying out the em- 
piricism of Locke to its ultimate consequences in sensualism 
and materialism. Although this empiricism had sjjrung up 
on English soil, and had soon become universal^ prevalent 
there, it was reserved for France to push it to the last ex- 
treme, and show it to be destructive of the foundations of all 
moral and rehgious life. This final consequence of empiri- 
cism was not congenial to the English national character. 
On the contrary, both the empiricism of Locke, and the scep- 
ticism of Hume, found themselves opposed in the latter half 
of the eighteenth century, by a reaction in the Scotch philoso- 
phy (Reid, 1710-1796 ; Beattie, Oswald^ Diigcdd Steivart, 
1753-1828). The attempt was here made to establish cer- 
tain principles of truth as innate and immanent in the 
subject, which should avail both against the tahula rasa of 
Locke, and the scepticism of Hume. These principles were 
taken in a thoroughly English way, as those of common 
sense, as facts of experience, as facte of the moral instinct 
and sound human understanding ; as something empirically^ 
given, and found in the common consciousness by self-con- 
templation and reflection. But in France, on the other hand, 
there was such a public and social condition of things dm*ing 
the eighteenth centur}', that we can onl}^ regard the systems 
of materialism and egoistic morality which here appeared 
(as the ultimate practical consequences of the empirical stand- 
point) to be the natural result of the universal corruption. 
The expression of a lady respecting the S3'stem of Helvetius, 
that it uttered only the secret of all the world, is well known. 

Most closely connected with the empiricism of Locke, is 
the sensuaHsm of the Abbe Condillac. Condillac was born at 



234 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Grenoble, 1715. In his first writings he adhered to Locke, 
but subsequently passed beyond him, and sought to establish 
a philosophical standpoint of his own. He was elected a 
member of the French Academy in 1768, and died in 1780. 
His writings, w^hich exhibit much moral earnestness and re- 
ligious feeling, fill twenty- three volumes, and have their origin 
in a moral and religious interest. 

Condillac, like Locke, started with the proposition that all 
our knowledge comes from experience. While, however, 
Locke had indicated two sources for this knowledge, sensa- 
tion and reflection, the outer and the inner sense, Condillac 
referred reflection to sensation, and reduced the two sources 
to one. Reflection is, with him, only sensation; all intel- 
lectual occurrences, even the combination of ideas and voli- 
tion, are to be regarded only as modified sensations. It is 
the chief problem and content of Condillac's philosophizing 
to carry out this thought, and derive the different functions 
of the soul from the sensations of the outer sense. He illus- 
trates this thought by a statue, which has been made with a 
perfect internal organization like a man, but which possesses 
no ideas, and in which onl}' gradually one sense after another 
awakens and fills the soul with impressions. In such a view 
man stands on the same footing as the brute, for all his 
knowledge and all his incentives to action he receives from 
sensation. Condillac consequently names men perfect ani- 
mals, and brutes imperfect men. Still he revolts from affirm- 
ing the materiality of the soul, and denying the existence of 
God. These ultimate consequences of sensualism were first 
drawn b}^ others after him ; though, indeed, they were suflfl- 
ciently evident. As sensualism affirmed that truth or what 
actually is could only be perceived through the sense, so we 
have onl}^ to reverse this proposition, and have the thesis of 
materialism, viz., the sensible alone is, there is no other 
being but material being. 



HELVETIUS. 235 

SECTION XXXI. 

HELVETIUS. 

Helvetius deduced the moral consequences of the sensual- 
istic standpoint. While theoretical sensualism aflSrms that all 
our knowledge is determined by sensation, practical sensu- 
alism adds to this the analogous proposition that all our voli- 
tion springs from the same source, and is regulated by sensu- 
ous desire. The satisfaction of this sensuous desire Helvetius 
affirmed to be the first principle of ethics. 

Helvetius was born at Paris in 1715. Having in his twenty- 
third year obtained the position of Farmer-General, he found 
himself soon in possession of a large income, but after a few 
years this oflSce became so vexatious that he abandoned it. 
The study of Locke determined the direction of his specula- 
tions. Helvetius wrote his famed work, De V Esprit, in the rural 
seclusion which followed the resignation of his office. It ap- 
peared in 1758, and attracted great and often favorable atten- 
tion at home and abroad, though it drew upon him a violent 
persecution, especially from the clerg}^ It was fortunate for 
him that the persecution satisfied itself with suppressing his 
book. The repose in which he spent his later years was inter- 
rupted only by two journe3'S which he made to Germany and 
England. He died in 1 771 . His personal character was wholly 
estimable, full of kindness and generosit}^ Especially in his 
place as Farmer-General he showed himself benevolent to- 
wards the poor, and resolute against the exactions of his sub- 
alterns. The st3^1e of his writings is easy and elegant. 

Self-love or interest, says Helvetius, is the lever of all our 
mental activities. Even that activity which is purely intel- 
lectual, our instinct towards knowledge, our love of ideas, 
rests upon this. But since all self-love refers essentially only 
to bodily pleasure, it follows that every mental occurrence 



236 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

within us has its peculiar source onlj^ in the striving after 
this pleasure ; but in saj'ing this, we have Indicated where 
the principle of all moralit}' is to be sought. It is an absur- 
dit}' to require a man to do the good simph^ for its own sake. 
This is just as impracticable as to require him to do the evil 
simpl}' for the sake of the evil. Hence if moralit}' would not 
be wholl}' fruitless, it must return to its empirical basis, and 
venture to adopt the true principle of all action, \iz., sen- 
suous pleasure and pain, or, in other words, selfishness as an 
actual moral principle. Hence, as a correct legislation is 
that which secm-es obedience to its laws through reward and 
punishment, i.e., through selfishness, so will a correct sj'stem 
of morals be that which derives the duties of men from self- 
love, which shows that that which is forbidden is something 
which is followed by disagreeable consequences.. A S3'stem 
of ethics wiiich does not involve the self-interest of men, or 
which wars against this, necessarily remains fruitless. 



SECTION XXXII. 

THE FRENCH CLEARING UP AND MATERIALISM. 

1. It has already been remarked (Sect. XXX.) that the 
carrying out of empiricism to its extremes, as was attempted 
in France, was most intimately connected with the general 
condition of the French people and state, in the period be- 
fore the revolution. The contradiction which was character- 
istic of the Middle Ages, the external and dualistic relation 
to the spiritual world, liad developed itself in Catholic France 
till it had corrupted and destro}'ed all healthy social life. 
]\Iorals, maiul}' through the influence of a licentious court, 
had become wholly corrui)ted ; the state had sunk to an un- 
bridled despotism, and the church to a hierarchy as hypo- 



THE FEENCH CLEARING UP. 237 

critical as it was powerful. Since, thus, all substance and 
worth had vanished from the spiritual world, nature alone 
remained, — nature, that is, in the form of a soulless mass, 
or matter, and related to man onh' as the object of sen- 
sation and desire. Yet it is not the materialistic extreme 
which constitutes the peculiar character and tendency of the 
period now before us. The common character of the French 
jjhilosoplies of the eighteenth century is rather, and most 
prominently, their opposition to all the t3Tanny and wrong- 
then dominant in state, religion, and societ}". Their criti- 
cism and polemics, which were much more ingenious and 
eloquent than strictl}' scientific, were directed against the 
whole realm of traditional, given, and positive notions. 
They sought to show the contradiction between the exist- 
ing elements in the state and the church, and the incontro- 
vertible demands of the reason. They sought to overthrow 
in the faith of the world ever}' fixed opinion which had not 
been established in the eye of reason, and to give the think- 
ing man the full consciousness of his native freedom. In 
order that we may correctly estimate the merit of these men, 
we must bring before us the French world of that age against 
which their attacks were du-ected ; the dissoluteness of a piti- 
ftil court, the slavish obedience exacted by a corrupt priest- 
hood, a church sunken into decay 3'et seeking worldly honor, 
a state achninistration, a dispensation of justice, and a condi- 
tion of societ}', which nuist be profoundh' revolting to every 
thinking man and ever}' moral feeling. It is the immortal 
merit of these men that they gave over to scorn and hatred 
the abjectness and h}^3ocrisy which then reigned ; that the}' 
brought the minds of men to look with inditference upon the 
idols of the world, and awakened within them a consciousness 
of their own autonom}\ 

2. The most famous and influential actor of this period is 
Voltaire (1694-1778). Tliough a writer of great versatility, 
rather than a professed philosopher, there was yet no philoso- 
pher of that time who exerted so powerful an influence upon 



238 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

tlie whole thought Of his coimtr}' and his age. Voltaire was 
no atheist. On the contrary, he regarded the belief in a Su- 
preme Being to be so necessary, that he once said that if 
there were no God we should be under the necessitj'' of in- 
venting one. He was just as little disposed to den}^ the 
immortalit}^ of the soul, though he often expressed his doubts 
upon it. He regarded the atheistic materialism of a La Met- 
trie as nothing but nonsense. In these respects, therefore, 
he is far removed from the standpoint of the philosophers 
who followed him. His whole hatred was expended against 
Christianity as a positive religion. To destroy hierarchical 
intolerance he considered to be his peculiar mission, and he 
left no means untried to attain this anxiouslj^ longed-for end. 
His unwearied warfare against every positive religion pre- 
pared the wa}^ and furnished weapons for the attacks against 
spiritualism which followed. 

3. The Encyclopedists had a more decidedl}' sceptical rela- 
tion to the principles and the basis of sphitualism. The 
philosophical Encj'clopedia established liy Diderot (1713- 
1784), and published by him in connection with d'Alembert, 
is a memorable monument of the ruling spirit in France in 
the time immediatel}' previous to the revolution. It was the 
pride of France at that age, because it expressed in a bril- 
liant and universall}' accessible form the inner consciousness 
of the French people. With the keenest wit it reasoned 
away law from the state, freedom from moralit}', and spirit 
and God from nature, though all tliis was done onl}^ in scat- 
tered, and, for the most part, timorous intimations. In 
Diderot's independent writings we find talent of much philo- 
sophic importance imited with great earnestness. But it is 
ver}' difficult to fix and accurately to limit his philosophic 
views, since they were ver}' gradual!}' formed, and Diderot 
expressed tliem always with some reserve and accommoda- 
tion. In general, however, it may be remarked, that in tlie 
progress of his speculations he constant!}' approached nearer 
tJie extreme of the philosophical direction of his age. In his 



THE FEENCH CLEAEING UP. 239 

earlier writings a Deist, he aftenvards avowed the opinion 
that all is God. At first defending the immaterialit}' and 
immortality of the soul, he expressed himself at a later period 
decidedl}^ against these doctrines, affirming that the species 
alone has an abiding being while the individual passes away, 
and that immortality is nothing other than to live in the 
thoughts of coming generations. But Diderot did not ven- 
ture to the real extreme of logical materialism ; his moral 
earnestness restrained him from this. 

4. The last word of materialism was spoken with reckless 
audacit}' by the physician La Mettrie (1709-1751), a cotem- 
porarj' of Diderot : every thing spiritual is a delusion, and 
physical enjoj^ment is the highest end of man. Faith in the 
existence of a God, says La Mettrie, is as groundless as it 
is fruitless. The world will not be happy till atheism becomes 
universally established. Then only will there be no more re- 
ligious strife, then onty will theologians, the most odious of 
combatants, disappear, and nature, poisoned at present by 
their influence, will come again to its rights. In reference 
to the human soul, there can be no philosophy but materialism. 
All the observation and experience of the greatest philosophers 
and phj'Sicians declare this. Soul is nothing but a mere name, 
which has a rational signification only when we understand 
b}' it that part of our body which thinks. This is the brain, 
which has its fibres of cogitation, just as. the limbs have their 
muscles of motion. That which gives man his advantage 
over the brutes is, first, the organization of his brain, and 
second, its capacit}' for receiving instruction. Otherwise, is 
man a brute like the beasts around him, though in many 
respects surpassed by these. Immortality is an absurdity. 
The soul perishes with the body of which it forms a part. 
With death ever}' thing is over, la farce est jouee! The 
practical and selfish application of all this is — let us enjoy 
ourselves as long as we exist, and not throw away an}' satis- 
faction we can attain. 

5. The Systeme cle la Nature afterwards attempted to 



240 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

elaborate with greater earnestness and scientific precision, 
that which had been uttered so superficial!}' and so supercil- 
iousl}' by La Mettrie, viz., the doctrine that matter alone 
exists, while mind is nothing other than matter refined. 

The Systeme de la Nature appeared in London under a 
fictitious name in 1770. It was then published as a posthu- 
mous work of Mirabaud, late secretar}' of the Academ}'. It 
doubtless had its origin in the circle which was wont to 
assemble with Baron Holbach, and of which Diderot, Grimm, 
and others were leaders. Whether the Baron Holbach him- 
self, or his tutor Lagrange is the author of tliis work, or 
whether it is the joint production of a number, cannot now 
be determined. The Systeme de la Nature is hardlj^ a French 
book : the st3'le is too lieavj' and tedious. 

There is everj^where, sajs the Systeme de la Nature^ noth- 
ing but matter and motion. Both are inseparabty connected. 
If matter is at rest, it is only because it is prevented from 
mo^dng, for in its essence it is not a dead mass. Motion is 
twofold, attraction and repulsion. The different motions 
which we perceive are the product of these two, and tlu^ough 
these different motions arise the different connections and the 
whole manifoldness of things. The laws which direct in all 
this are eternal and unchangeable. — The most weight}' con- 
sequences of such a doctrine are : 

(1) The materiality of man. Man is no twofold being 
compounded of mind and matter, as is erroneously believed. 
If the inquiry is closely made what the mind is, we are 
answered, that the most accurate philosophical investigations 
have shown, that the principle of activity in man is a sub- 
stance whose peculiar nature cannot be known, but of which 
we can aflirm that it is indivisible, unextended, iuA-isible, etc. 
But how can we form any definite conception of a being 
which is onl}- the negation of that which constitutes knowl- 
edge, a being the idea of which is peculiarly only the absence 
of all ideas? Still farther, how can it be explained upon such 
a hypothesis, that a substance which itself is not material 



THE FRENCH CLEARING UP. 241 

can work upon material things, and set these in motion, when 
there is no point of contact between the two ? In fact, those 
who distinguish their soul from their body, have ouh' to make 
a distinction between theii' brain and their body. Thought 
is onl}^ a modification of our brain, just as volition is another 
modification of the same bodily organ. 

(2) Another chimera, the belief in the being of a God, is 
connected with the twofold division of man into body and 
soul. Tliis belief arises like the h3'x:)othesis of a soul-sub- 
stance, because mind is falsely di-vided from matter, and na- 
ture is thus made twofold. The e^il which men experienced, 
and whose natm'al cause they could not discover, they as- 
signed to a deit}- which they imagined for the purpose. The 
fii'st notions of a God have their source therefore in sorrow, 
fear, and nncertainty. We ti-emble because our forefathers 
for thousands of 3'ears have done the same. This circum- 
stance awakens no auspicious prepossession. But not only 
the rude, but also the theological idea of God is worthless, 
for it exi^lains no phenomenon of nature. It is, moreover, 
full of absm'dities, for, since it ascribes moral attributes to 
God, it renders him human ; while on the other hand, bv a 
mass of negative attributes, it seeks to distinguish him aloso- 
lutely ft-om everj^ other being. The true sj'stem, the system 
of nature, is hence atheistic. But such a doctrine requires a 
cultiu'e and a com'age which neither all men nor most men 
possess. If we understand by the word atheist one who be- 
lieves only in dead matter, or who designates the moving 
jiozuer in natm-e with the name God, then is there no atheist, 
or whoever would be one is a fool. But if the word means 
one who denies the existence of a spiritual being, a being 
whose attributes can only be a som*ce of annoyance to men, 
then are there indeed atheists, and there would be more of 
them, if a coiTect knowledge of natin^e and a sound reason 
were more widely diffused. But if atheism is time, then 
should it be diffused. There are, indeed, man}' who have 
cast off the voke of religion, who nevertheless thhik it is 
11 



242 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

necessary for the common people in order to keep them within 
proper limits. But this is just as if we should determine to 
give a man poison lest he should abuse his strength. Every 
kind of Deism leads necessarily^ to superstition, since it is not 
possible to continue on the standpoint of pm-e Deism. 

(3) With such premises the freedom and immortal it3' of 
the soul both disappear. Man, like everj^ other substance in 
nature, is a link in the chain of necessary- connection, a blind 
instrument in the hands of necessitj'. If any thing should be 
endowed with self-motion, that is, with a capacitj^ to produce 
motion without any other cause, then would it have the power 
to destroy motion in the universe ; but this is contrar}^ to the 
conception of the universe, which is onh' an endless series of 
necessar}' motions spreading out into wider circles continually. 
The claim of an individual immortality is absurd. For to 
afRi*m that the soul exists after the destruction of the bod}', is 
to affirm that a modification of a substance can exist after the 
substance itself has disappeared. There is no other immor- 
tality than to live in the remembrance of posterity. 

(4) The practical consequences of these principles are in 
the highest degree favorable for the System of Nature^ the 
utility' of any doctrine being ever the first criterion of its 
truth. While the ideas of theologians are productive onl}" of 
disquiet and anxiet}' to man, the System of Nature frees him 
from all such unrest, teaches him to enjoy the present mo- 
ment, and to quietly yield to his destinj-, while it gives him 
that kind of apathy which ever}' one must regard as a bless- 
ing. If morality would be active, it can rest only upon self- 
love and self-interest ; it must show man whither his well- 
considered interest would lead him. He is a good man who 
gains his own interest in such a wa}' that others will find it for 
their interest to assist him. Tlie system of self-interest, there- 
fore, demands the union of men among each other, and in 
this we liaA'C true morality. 

The logical dogmatic materialism of the Systeme de la Na- 
ture is the farthest limit of an empirical du-ection in philoso- 



LEIBNITZ. 243 

pliy, and consequently closes that course of the development 
of a one-sided realism which had begun with Locke. The 
attempt first made by Locke to explain and derive the ideal 
world from the material, ended in materialism with the total 
reduction of every thing spiritual to the material, with the to- 
tal denial of the spmtual. We must now, before proceeding 
farther, according to the classification made Sect. XXVII., 
consider the idealistic course of development which ran par- 
allel with the sj'stems of a partial realism. At the head of 
this course stands Leibnitz. 



SECTION XXXIII. 

LEIBNITZ. 

As empiricism sprang from the attempt to subordinate the 
intellectual to the material, to materialize the spiritual, so on 
the other hand, idealism had its source in the effort to spirit- 
ualize the material, or so to construct the conception of mind 
that matter could be subsumed under it. To the empiric- 
sensualistic philosophy, mind was nothing but refined matter, 
while to the idealistic, matter was only a grosser form of mind 
("a confused notion," as Leibnitz expresses it) . The former, 
in its logical development, was driA'en to the principle that 
only material things exist, the latter (as with Leibnitz and 
Berkele}') comes to the opposite principle, that there are only 
souls and then* ideas. For the partial realistic standpoint, 
material things were the truly substantial. But for the ideal- 
istic standpoint, substantiality belongs alone to the intellec- 
tual world, to the Ego. Mind, to partial realism, was essen- 
tially void, a tabula rasa, its whole content came to it from the 
external world. But a partial idealism sought to carr}^ out 
the principle that nothing can come into the mind which had 
not at least been preformed within it, that all its knowledge is 



244 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

furnished it b}' itself. According to the former view knowl- 
edge was fi passive relation ; according to the latter it was 
whoU}' active. While, lastl}', a partial realism had attempted 
to explain the becoming in nature for the most part tlirough 
real, i.e., through mechanical grounds {L' Homme Machine is 
the title of one of La Mettrie's writings) , idealism had sought 
an explanation of the same thi'ough ideal grounds, ^.e., teleo- 
logically. While the former had made its i)rominent inquiry 
for moving causes, and had, indeed, often ridiculed the search 
for a final cause ; it is final causes toward which the latter 
directs its chief aim. The mediation between mind and mat- 
ter, between thought and being, will now be sought in the 
final cause, in the teleological harmony of all things {pre- 
established harmony) . The standpoint of Leibnitz maj' thus 
be cliaracterized in a word. 

Gottfried Wilhelm Leibnitz was born in 1646, at Leipsic, 
where his father was professor. Having chosen the law as 
Ms profession, he entered the university in 1661, and in 1663 
he defended for his degree of doctor in philosophy, his disser- 
tation De Principio Individui^ a theme very characteristic of 
the direction of his later philosophizing. He afterwards went 
to Jena, and subsequently to Altdorf, where he took the de- 
gTce of Doctor of Laws. At Altdorf he was offered a pro- 
fessorship of jurisprudence, which he refused. The rest of 
his life was unsettled and desultory, spent for the most part in 
courts, where, as a versatile courtier, he was emplojxd in the 
most varied duties of diplomac}'. In the 3'ear 1672 he went 
to Paris, in order to induce Louis XIV. to undertake the con- 
quest of Eg3i3t, and thus to direct his militar}* schemes from 
German}-. He subsequent!}' visited London, whence he was 
afterwards called to Hanover, as councillor and librarian of 
the learned Catholic duke, John Frederic. Here he spent the 
most of his subsequent life, though interrupted by occasional 
journeys to Vienna, Berlin, etc. He was intimatel}' associated 
with the Prussian Queen, Soi)hia Charlotte, a highl}' talented 
woman, who surrounded herself with a circle of the most dis- 



LEIBNITZ. 245 

tinguished scholars of the time, and for whom Leibnitz wrote, 
at her own request, his Theodicee. In 1700 an academ}^ was 
estabUshed at BerUn, through his efforts, and he became its 
first president. Similar, but fruitless efforts were made b}' 
him to establish academies in Dresden and Vienna. In 1711 
the title of imperial court councillor, and a baronage, was be- 
stowed upon him by the emperor Charles YI. Soon after, he 
betook himself to Vienna, where he remained a considerable 
period, and wrote his Monadology, at the solicitation of Prince 
Eugene. He died in 1716. Next to Aristotle, Leibnitz was 
the most highl}^ gifted scholar that had ever hved ; with the 
richest and most extensive learning, he united the highest and 
most penetrating powers of mind. Germany has reason to 
be proud of him, since, after Jacob Boehme, he is the first 
philosopher of an}' note among the Germans. With hun phi- 
losoph}' found a home in Germany. It is to be regretted that 
the great variety of his efforts and literary undertakings, to- 
gether with his roving manner of life, prevented him from 
giving anj' connected exposition of his philosoph}^ His views 
are for the most part developed only in brief and occasional 
writings and letters, composed frequent!}' in the French lan- 
guage. It is hence not easy to state his philosophy in its in- 
ternal connection, though none of his views are isolated, but 
all stand strictly connected with each other. The foUowiug 
are the chief points : — 

1. The Doctrine of Monads. — The fundamental pecu- 
liarity of Leibnitz's theory is its opposition to Spinozism. 
Substance, as the indeterminate universal, was with Spinoza 
the only positive. With Leibnitz also the conception of sub- 
stance lay at the basis of philosophy, but his definition of it 
was entirely different. While Spinoza had sought to exclude 
from his substance every positive determination, and espe- 
cially all action, and had apprehended it simply as pure 
being, Leibnitz viewed it as living activity and active energy, 
an example of which might be found in a stretched bow, 
which moves and straightens itself through its own energy 



246 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

as soon as the external hindrances are removed. That this 
active energ}' forms the essence of substance is a principle 
to vrhich Leibnitz ever returns, and from which, in fact, all 
the other chief points in his philosophy' may with strictest 
logical sequence be derived. From this there follow at once 
two determinations of substance directly opposed to Spino- 
zism ; first, that it is individual, a monad ; and second, that 
there are a multiphcitj" of monads. Substance, in so far as 
it exercises an activitj' similar to that of an elastic bod}', is 
essentially an excluding acti^-it}^, or repulsion ; the concep- 
tion of an individual or a monad being that which excludes 
another from itself. But this involves also the second deter- 
mination, — that of the multiphcity of monads; one monad 
cannot exist alone, there must be others. The conception 
of one indiA'idual postulates other indi^dduals, which stand 
over against the one as excluded from it. Hence the funda- 
mental thesis of the Leibnitz philosoph}' in opposition to 
Spinozism is this, viz., there is a multiplicit}- of individual 
substances or monads. They are the elements of all reality, 
the basis of the whole universe, ph^'sical as well as spiritual. 

2. The Monads more Accurately Determined. — The 
monads of Leibnitz are similar to atoms in their general fea- 
tiu-es. Like these they are punctual units, independent of 
an}^ external influence, and indestructible by any external 
power. But notwithstanding this similarity, there is an im- 
portant and characteristic difference between the two. First, 
the atoms are not distinguished from each other, the}' are all 
qualitatively aUke ; but each one of the monads is different 
in quality from every other, every one is a peculiar world for 
itself, every one is different from every other. According to 
Leibnitz, there are no two things in the world which are ex- 
actl}' alike. Secondly, atoms can be considered as extended 
and divisible, but the monads are metaph3'sical points, and 
actually indivisible. Here, lest we should stumble at this 
proposition (for an aggregate of uuextended monads can 
never give an extended world) , we must take into considera- 



LEIBNITZ. 247 

tion Leibnitz's view of space, which, according to him, is not 
something real, but onl}' conflised, subjective representation. 
ThuxU}', the monad is a U^dng, sensitive being, a soul. 
Among the atomists such an idea has no place ; but Trith 
Leibnitz it has a very important part to pla}^ Everywhere 
in the world, according to him, there is life, individual vitalitj', 
and a vital connection of individual beings. The monads are 
not dead, not mere extended substance, but self-subsistent, 
self-identical, and determined by nothing external, (a) Con- 
sidered in themselves, however, the}^ are to be thought of as 
existing in hving mutation and activity. As the human soul, 
a monad of a higher order, is never, even when unconscious, 
without some activity of obscm'e imagination and vohtion; 
so ever}' monad continually undergoes various modifications 
or states, which accord with its peculiar qualitj^ Everywhere 
there is motion, nowhere perfect rest, (b) And as the hmnan 
soul S3Tnpathizes with all the varjing conditions of natiure, 
and muTors the universe in itself, so do the monads univer- 
sall3% Each of the infinitely numerous monads is a micro- 
cosm, a centre, a miiTor of the univei'^e. Each in itself 
reflects ev^er}' tiling which is and happens ; and it does so 
through its own spontaneous power, by virtue of wliich it 
holds ideallj' in itself, as it were in embryo, the totalit}' of 
things. In each monad, therefore, an all-seeing e3'e might 
read ev^erj^ thing which is occurring, has occurred, or will 
occur in the universe. This vitality of the monads, and their 
vital connection vnth the rest of the world Leibnitz charac- 
terizes more definitel}" thus : the life of the monads consists 
in a continuous succession of perceptions, i.e., obscure or 
clear conceptions of its ovm states and of the states of the 
others. The monads proceed from perception to perception. 
Every monad is a soul. In this consists the perfection of 
the world. 

3. The Pre-established Harmony. — The universe is 
thus the simi of all the monads. Ever}'^ thing, every com- 
posite, is an aggregate of monads. Thus every bodily organ- 



248 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

ism is not one substance, but manj^, it is a multiplicity of 
monads, like a machine wliich is made up of a number of 
distinct pieces of mechanism. Leibnitz compared bodies to 
a fish-pond, which might be full of living elements, though 
dead itself. The ordinary view of things is thus wholly re- 
versed ; true substantiality does not belong to bodies, i.e., to 
the aggregates, but to their original elements. Matter in the 
vulgar sense, as something conceived to be without mind, 
does not at all exist. How now must the inner connection 
of the universe be conceived ? In the following wsij. Every 
monad is a representative being, and at the same time, each 
one is different from exery other. This difference, therefore, 
depends alone upon the difference of representation : there 
are just as many different degrees of representation as there 
are monads, and these degrees may be fixed according to 
some of their prominent stages. An important principle of 
classification is the distinction between confused and distinct 
cognition. Hence a monad of the lowest rank (a monad 
toute nue) will be one which merely represents, i.e.^ which 
possesses only the most confused knowledge. Liebnitz com- 
pares this state with a swoon, or with our condition in a 
dreamless sleep, in which we are not without representations 
(notions) , — for otherwise we could have none when awaking, 
— but in which the representations are so numerous that 
they neutralize each other and do not come into the con- 
sciousness. This is the stage of inorganic nature in which 
the life of the monads manifests itself only in the form of 
motion. In a higher rank are those monads in which the 
representation is active as a formative vital force, though 
still without consciousness. This is the stage of the vegeta- 
l)le world. Still higher ascends the life of the monad when 
it attains to sensation and memory, as is the case in the ani- 
mal kingdom. The lower monads may be said to sleep, and 
the brute monads to dream. When still farther the soul rises 
to reason or reflection, we call it mind, spirit. — The distinc- 
tion of the monads from each other is, therefore, this, that 



LEIBNITZ. 249 

each one, though mirroring the whole and the same universe 
in itself, does it difFerentl}^ the one more, and the rest less 
perfectly. Each one contains the whole universe, the whole 
infinity within itself, and in this respect is like God {parvus 
in suo genere deus) , the only difference being that God knows 
every thing with perfect distinctness, while the monad repre- 
sents it confusedly, though one monad maj' represent it more 
confusedly than another. The limitation of a monad does 
not, therefore, consist in its containing less than another or 
than God, but only in its containing more imperfect^ or in 
its representing less distinctly. — Upon this standpoint the 
universe, in so far as every monad mirrors one and the same 
universe, though each in a different way, represents a specta- 
cle of the greatest possible difference, as well as of the great- 
est possible unity and order, i.e., of the greatest possible 
perfection, or the absolute harmony. For variety in unity is 
harmon3^ — But in still another respect the universe is a sj's- 
tem of harmony. Since the monads do not work upon each 
other, but each one follows onl}' the law of its own being, 
there is danger lest the inner harmon}^ of the universe may 
be disturbed. How is this danger removed? Through this, 
that each monad stands in a \dtal connection with the same 
universe (and with the whole of it) : each reflects the uni- 
versal life. The changes of the collective monads, therefore, 
run parallel with each other, and in this consists the harmony 
of all as pre-estabhshed by God. 

4. The Relation of the Deity to the Monads. — What 
part does the conception of God play in the sj^stem of Leib- 
nitz? An almost idle one. Following the strict conse- 
quences of his sj^stem, Leibnitz should have held to no proper 
theism, but the harmon}^ of the universe should have taken 
the place of the Deity. Ordinarily he considers God as the 
sufficient cause of all monads. But he was also accustomed 
to consider the final cause of a thing as its sufficient cause. 
In this respect, therefore, he almost identifies God and the 
absolute final cause. Elsewhere he considers the Deity as 



250 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

a simple primitive substance, or as the individual primitive 
unit3^ Again, he speaks of God as a pure immaterial actu- 
alit}', actus jnu'us, while to the monads belongs matter, that 
is, an actualit}^ unfree, restricted, and obstructed through a 
principle of passive resistance to spontaneous movement 
(striving, appetitio). Once he calls him a monad, though 
this is in manifest contradiction with the determmations 
otherwise assigned him. It was for Leibnitz a very difficult 
problem to bring his monadology and his theism into har- 
mon}" with each other, without giving up the premises of 
both. If he held fast to the substantiality of the monads, 
he was in danger of making them independent of the Deity, 
and if he did not, he could hardl}' escape falling back into 
Spinozism. 

5. The Relation of Soul and Body is readily explained 
on the standpoint of the pre-established hannon}^ This rela- 
tion, taking the premises of the monadology, might seem 
enigmatical. If no monad can work upon any other, how 
can the soul work upon the body to lead and move it ? The 
enigma is solved b}" the pre-established harmony. AYhile the 
bod}' and soul, each one independently of the other, follows 
the laws of its being, the body working mechanically, and 
the soul pursuing ends, 3'et God has established such a con- 
cordant harmony of the two activities, such a parallelism of 
the two functions, that there is in fact a perfect unity for 
bod}^ and soul. There are, sa3^s Leibnitz, three views re- 
specting the relation of body and soul. The first and most 
common supposes a reciprocal influence between the two, but 
such a view is untenable, because there can be no interchange 
between mind and matter. The second, that of occasion- 
alism (c/. Sect. XXV. 1), brings about this interchange 
through the constant assistance of God, which is nothing 
more nor less than to make God a Deus ex machina. Hence 
the only solution for the problem is the hypothesis of a pre- 
established liarmon}'. Leibnitz illustrates these thi'ee views 
in the following example. Let one conceive of two watches, 



LEIBNITZ. 251 

whose hands ever accurately indicate the same time. This 
agreement may be explained, first (the common view), by 
supposing an actual connection between the hands of each, 
so that the hand of the one watch might draw the hand of the 
other after it, or second (the occasionahstic view), b}^ con- 
ceiving of a watch-maker who continually keeps the hands 
alike, or lastl}" (the pre-established harmon}"), b}' ascribing 
to each a mechanism so exquisitely wrought that each one 
goes in perfect independence of the other, and at the same 
time in entu-e agi-eement with it. — That the soul is unmortal 
(indestructible), follows at once from the doctrine of monads. 
There is properl}" no such thing as death. That which is 
called death is only the soul losing a part of the monads 
which compose the mechanism of its body, while the h^dng 
element goes back to a condition similar to that in which it 
was before it came upon the theatre of the world. 

6. The monadology has very important consequences in 
reference to the theory of knoivledge. As, with reference to 
ontology, the philosophy of Leibnitz was determined by its 
opposition to Spinozism, so with reference to the theory of 
cognition it was determined by its opposition to the emphi- 
cism of Locke. Locke's Essay concerning Human Under- 
standing had attracted Leibnitz without satisfjdng him, and 
he therefore attempted a new investigation in his Nouveaux 
Essais^ in which he defended the doctrine of innate ideas. 
But this hjTpothesis of innate ideas Leibnitz now freed from 
that defective view which had justified the objections of Locke. 
The innateness of the ideas must not be held as though they 
were exphcitly and consciously contained in the mind, but 
rather the mind possesses them potentially and only virtually, 
though with the capacit}^ to produce them out of itself. All 
thoughts are properly innate, i.e., the}' do not come into the 
mind from without, but are rather produced b}' it from itself. 
Any external influence upon the mind is inconceivable, it even 
needs nothing external for its sensations. While Locke had 
compared the mind to an miwritten piece of paper, Leibnitz 



252 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

likened it to a block of marble, in which the veins prefigure 
the form of the statue. Hence the common antithesis be- 
tween rational and empirical knowledge disappears with Leib- 
nitz in the degrees of greater or less distinctness. — Among 
these theoretically innate ideas, Leibnitz recognizes two of 
special prominence, which take the first rank as principles 
of all knowledge and all ratiocination, — the principle of con- 
tradiction (principium contradictionis) , and the principle of 
sufficient cause {prindphim rationis sufficientis) . To these, 
as a principle of the second rank, must be added the princi- 
pium indiscernibiUum, or the principle that there are in nature 
no two things wholly alike. 

7. The most elaborate exposition of Leibnitz's theological 
views is given in his Theodicee. The Theodicee, is, however, 
his weakest work, and has but a loose connection with the 
rest of his philosoph}^ Written at the instigation of a woman, 
it belies this origin neither in its form nor in its content — not 
in its form, for in its effort to be popular it becomes diffuse 
and unscientific, and not in its content, for it accommodates 
itself to the positive dogmas and the premises of theology 
farther than the scientific basis of the sj^stem of Leibnitz 
would permit. In tliis work, Leibnitz investigates the rela- 
tion of God to the world in order to show a conformity in 
this relation to a final cause, and to free God from the charge 
of acting without or contrary to an aim. Why is the world 
as it is? God might have created it very differently. True, 
answers Leibnitz, God saw an infinite number of worlds as 
possible before him, but out of .all these he chose the one 
which actually is as the best. This is the famous doctrine 
of the best possible world, according to which no more per- 
fect world is possible than the one which is. — But how so? 
Is not the existence of evil at variance with this ? Leibnitz 
answers this objection by distinguishing three kinds of evil, 
the metaphysical, the pliysical, and the moral. The meta- 
physical evil, i.e., the finiteness and incompleteness of things, 
is necessary because inseparable from finite existence, and is 



LEIBNITZ. .253 

thus imconclitionally willed by God. Physical evil (pain, 
etc.), though not unconditionally willed by God, is often a 
good conditionall}", i.e., as a punishment or means of improve- 
ment. Moral evil or wickedness can in no way be charged 
to the will of God. Leibnitz took various ways to account 
for its existence, and ob^date the contradiction Ijing between 
it and the conception of God. At one time he says that 
wickedness is onl}- permitted b}' God as a conditio sine qua 
non, because without wickedness there were no freedom, and 
without freedom no vu-tue. Again, he reduces moral evil to 
metaphysical, and makes wickedness nothing real but merely 
a want of perfection, a negation, a limitation, pla3'ing the 
same j)art as do the shadows in a painted picture, or the dis- 
cords in a piece of music, which do not diminish the beauty, 
but only increase it tln-ough contrast. Again, he distin- 
guishes between the material and the formal element in a 
wicked act. The material of sin, the power to act, is from 
God, but the formal element, the wickedness of the act, be- 
longs wholl}^ to man, and is the result of his limitation, or, as 
Leibnitz here and there expresses it, of his eternal self-pre- 
destination. In no case can the harmony of the universe be 
destroyed thi'ough such a cause. 

These are the chief points of Leibnitz's philosophy. The 
general characteristic of it as given in the beginning of the 
present section, will be found to have been substantiated by 
the specific exposition that has now been furnished. 



254 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION XXXIV. 

BERKELEY. 

Leibnitz had not carried out the standpoint of idealism to 
its extreme. He had indeed, on the one side, explained 
space and motion and bodily things as phenomena which had 
their existence only in a confused representation, but on the 
other side, he had not wholly denied the existence of the 
corporeal world, but had recognized as a reaUty 13'ing at its 
basis the world of monads. The phenomenal or corporeal 
world had its fixed and substantial foundation in the monads. 
Thus Leibnitz, though an idealist, did not wholly break with 
realism. |The ultimate consequence of a pm'e subjective 
idealism would have been to wholly deny the reality of the 
objective, sensible world, and explain corporeal objects as 
simply phenomena, as nothing but subjective notions without 
an}^ objective reality as a basis. J. This consequence, the ideal- 
istic counterpart to the ultimate realistic result of materialism 
— appears in George Berkeley^ who was born in Ireland, 
1684, made bishop of the Anglican Church in 1734, and died 
in 1753. Hence, though he followed the empiricism of 
Locke, and sustained no outward connection with Liebnitz, 
we must place him in immediate succession to the latter as 
the perfecter of a subjective idealism. 

Our sensations, sa3'S Berkele}^ are enthely subjective. 
We are wholly in error if we believe that we have a sensa- 
tion of external objects, or perceive them. That which we 
have and perceive is only our sensations themselves. It is, 
e.^., clear, that by the sense of sight we can see neither the 
distance, the size, nor the form of objects, but that we only 
conclude that these exist, because our experience has taught 
us that a certain sensation of sight is alwaj's attended by cer- 
tain sensations of touch. That which we see is only colors, 
clearness, obscurit}^ etc., and it is false therefore to say that 



BERKELEY. 255 

we see and feel one and the same thing. So also we never 
go out of ourselves for those sensations to which we ascribe 
most decidedly an objective character. The peculiar objects 
of our understanding are only our own affections ; all ideas 
are therefore only our own sensations. But just as there can 
be no sensations outside of the sensitive subject, so no idea 
can have existence outside of him who possesses it. The so- 
called objects exist only in our notion, and have a being only 
as they are perceived. It is the great error of most philoso- 
phers that they ascribe to corporeal objects a being outside 
the conceiving mind, and do not see that they are only men- 
tal. It is not possible that material things should produce 
any thing so wholTy distinct firom themselves as sensations 
and notions. There is, thus, no such thing as a material ex- 
ternal world; minds alone exist, i.e., thinking beings, whose 
natm-e consists in thinking and willing. But whence then 
arise all our sensations which come to us without oiu* agenc}^, 
and which are not, thus, like the images of fancy, products 
of oiu" will? They arise from a spkit superior to ourselves, 
— for only a spirit can produce conceptions within us, — 
even from God. God gives us ideas ; but as it would be 
contradictory to assert that a being could give what it does 
not possess, so ideas exist in God, and we derive them from 
him. These ideas in God may be called archetypes, and 
those in us ectj'pes. — In consequence of this view, says 
Berkeley, we do not deny an independent reahty of things, 
we only deny that they can exist elsewhere than in an under- 
standing. Instead, therefore, of speaking of a natui'e in 
which, e.g., the sun is the cause of warmth, etc., the accurate 
ex^Dression would be this : God announces to us thi'ough the 
sense of sight that we are soon to perceive a sensation of 
warmth. Hence by natm-e we are only to understand the 
succession or the connection of ideas, and by natural laws 
the constant order in which thej' proceed, i.e., the laws of the 
association of ideas. This thorough-going subjective ideal- 
ism, this complete denial of matter, Berkeley considered as 
the surest way to oppose materiahsm and atheism. 



256 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION XXXV. 

WOLFF. 

The idealism of Berkele}^ as was to be expected from the 
natm'e of the case, remained without any farther develop- 
ment, but the philosoph}^ of Leibnitz was taken up and sub- 
jected to a farther revision b}' Christian Wolff. He was born 
in Breslau in 1679. He was chosen professor at Halle, where 
he became obnoxious to the charge of teaching a doctrine at 
variance with the Scriptm-es, and drew upon himself such a 
violent opposition from the theologians of the universit}^, that 
a cabinet order was issued for his dismissal on the 8th of No- 
vember, 1723, and he was enjoined to leave Prussia within 
forty-eight hours on pain of being hung. He then became 
professor in Marburg, but was afterwards recalled to Prussia 
b}' Frederick II. immediately upon his accession to the throne. 
He was subsequently made baron, and died 1754. In his 
chief thoughts (though omitting the bolder ideas of his pred- 
ecessor) he followed Leibnitz, a connection which he himself 
admitted, though he protested against the identification of his 
philosoph}' with that of Leibnitz, and objected to the name, 
Pliilosophia Leihnitio- Woljiana^ which was originated b}' his 
disciple Bilfinger. The historical merit of Wolff is threefold. 
First, and most important, he laid claim again to the whole 
domain of knowledge in the name of philosoph}^, and sought 
again to build up a sj^stematic scheme of doctrine, and make 
an encyclopedia of philosophy in the highest sense of the 
word. Though he did not himself furnish much new material 
for this purpose, 3'et he carcfull}' elaborated and arranged that 
which he found at hand. Sccondl}', he made again the philo- 
sophical method as such, an oI)ject of attention. His own 
method is, indeed, one altogether external to the content, 
namely, the mathematical or the mathcmatico-S3'llogistical, 
recommended by Leibnitz ; and by the application of this his 



WOLFF. 257 

whole philosophizing sinks to a flat formalism. (For instance, 
in his Principles of Architecture^ the eighth proposition is — 
" a window must be wide enough for two persons to recline 
together convenientl}^," — a proposition which is thus proved : 
*' we are more frequently accustomed to recline and look out 
at a window in company with another person than alone, and 
hence, since the builder of the house should satisfy the owner 
in every res^^ect (Sect. 1), he must make a window wide 
enough for two persons conveniently to recline within it at 
the same time, g.e.cZ.") Still this formalism is not without its 
advantage, for it subjects the philosophical content to a logical 
treatment. Thirdly, Wolff taught philosophy to speak Ger- 
man, an art which it has not since forgotten. Next to Leib- 
nitz, he is entitled to the merit of having made the German 
language for ever the organ of philosoph}^ 

The following remarks will suffice for the content and the 
scientific classification of Wolff's philosophy. He defines 
philosophy to be the science of the ]30ssible as such. But 
that is^ possible which contains no contradiction. Wolff de- 
fends this definition against the charge of presumption. It is 
not affirmed, he says, in this definition that either he or any 
other philosopher knows every thing which is possible. The 
definition only claims for philosophy the whole province of 
human knowledge, and it is certainl}- proper that philosophy 
should be described according to the highest perfection which 
it can attain, even though it has not yo^t actually reached it. 
— In what now does this science of the possible consist? 
Eel3ing upon the perception that there are within the soul 
two faculties, cognition and volition, Wolff divides philoso- 
ph}' into two great divisions, theoretical philosophy (an 
expression, however, which first appears among his follow- 
ers), or metaphysic, and practical philosoph3^ Logic pre- 
cedes both as a preliminary training for philosophical stud3\ 
Metaphysic is still farther divided by Wolff into ontology, 
cosmology, psychology, and natural theology ; practical phi- 
losophy he divides into ethics, whose object is man as man ; 



258 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

economics, whose object is man as a member of a family' ; 
and politics, whose object is man as a citizen of the state. 

1 . Ontology is the first part of Wolff's metaph}- sic. On- 
tology treats of what are now called categories, or those fun- 
damental conceptions which are applied to every object, and 
must therefore at the outset be investigated. Aristotle had 
already furnished a table of categories, but he had derived 
them wholly empirically. It is not much better with the 
ontology of Wolff ; it is laid out like a philosophical diction- 
ary. At its head he places the principle of contradiction, 
viz., it is not possible for any thing to be, and at the same 
time not to be. The conception of the possible at once fol- 
lows from this principle. That is possible which contains 
no contradiction. That is necessary, the opposite of which 
contradicts itself, and that is accidental, the opposite of 
which is possible. Every thing which is possible is a thing, 
though only an imaginary one ; that which neither is, nor is 
possible, is nothing. When many things together compose 
a thing, this is a whole, and the individual things compre- 
hended by it are its parts. The magnitude of a thing con- 
sists in the multitude of its parts. If A contains that by 
which we can understand the being of B, then that in A 
by which B becomes understood is the ground of B, and the 
whole A which contains the ground of B is its cause. That 
which contains the ground of its properties is the essence of 
a thing. Space is the arrangement of things which exist 
conjoint^. Place is the determinate way in which a thing 
exists in conjunction with others. Movement is change of 
place. Time is the arrangement of that which exists succes- 
sively, etc. . 

2. Cosmology. — Wolff defines the world to be a series of 
changing objects, which exist conjointly and successively, but 
which are so connected together that one ever contains the 
ground of the other. Things are connected in space and in 
time. By virtue of this universal connection, the world is 
one united whole ; the essence of the world consists in the 



WOLFF. 259 

mode of this connection. But this mode cannot be changed. 
It can neither receive any new ingredients nor lose any of 
those it possesses. From the essence of the world spring all 
its changes. In this respect the world is a machine. Events 
in the world are only h}i)otheticaUy necessary in so far as 
previous events have had a given character ; they are acci- 
dental in so far as the world might have been dkected other- 
wise. In respect to the question whether the world had a 
beginning in time, Wolff does not express himself explicitly. 
Since God is independent of time, but the world has been 
from eternity in tune, the world therefore is in no case eternal 
in the same sense that God is eternal. But according to 
Wolff, neither space nor time has any substantial being. 
Body is a thing composed of matter, and possessing a mov- 
ing power within itself. The powers of a body taken together 
are called its nature, and the comprehension of all being is 
called natm-e in general. That which has its gi'ound in the 
essence of the world is called natural, and that which has not 
is supernatm-al, or a mkacle. At the close of his cosmology, 
Wolff treats of the perfection and imperfection of the world. 
The perfection of a vrorld consists in this, that all things, 
whether simultaneous or successive, exist in perfect har- 
mony. But since every thing has its separate mles, the 
individual must give up so much from its perfection as is 
necessary for the sj-mmetr}^ of the whole. 

3. Rational Psychology. — The soul is that within us 
which is self-conscious. The soul is also conscious of other 
objects besides itself. Consciousness is either clear or indis- 
tinct. Clear consciousness is thought. The soul is a simple 
incorporeal substance. There dwells within it a power of 
perceiving a world. In this sense brutes also may have a 
soul, but a soul which possesses understanding and will is 
mind, and mind belongs alone to men. The soul of man is 
a mind joined to a bod}^, and this is the distinction between 
men and superior spuits. The movements of the soul and 
of the body harmonize with each other by vu-tue of the pre- 



260 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

established harmon}^ The freedom of the human soul is 
the power according to its own arbitrament, to choose of two 
possible things that which pleases it best. But the soul does 
not decide without motives ; it ever chooses that which it 
holds to be the best. Thus the soul would seem impelled to 
its action by its representations ; but the understanding is 
not constrained to accept any thing as good or bad, and 
hence also the will is not constrained, but free. As a simple 
being the soul is indivisible, and hence imperishable ; the 
souls of brutes, however, have no understanding, and hence 
enjo}^ no conscious existence after death. This belongs alone 
to the human soul, and hence the human soul alone is im- 
mortal. 

4. Natural Theology. — Wolff uses here the cosmolo- 
gical argument to demonstrate the existence of a Grod. God 
might have made different worlds, but has preferred the pres- 
ent one as the best. This world has been called into being 
by the will of God. His aim in its creation was the mani- 
festation of his own perfection. Evil in the world does not 
spring from the Divine will, but from the limited being of 
human things. God permits it onl}' as a means of good. 

This brief aphoristic exposition of Wolff's metaphysics, 
shows how closel}" it is related to the doctrine of Leibnitz. 
The latter, however, loses much of its speculative profound- 
ness by the abstract and logical treatment it receives in the 
hands of Wolff. For the most part with Wolff the specific 
elements of the monadology remain in the background ; his 
simple beings are not representative like the Monads, but 
more like the Atoms. Hence there is in his doctrines much 
that is illogical and contradictory, His peculiar merit in 
metaphysic is ontolog}^, which lie elaborated far more accu- 
ratel}' than his predecessors. A multitude of philosophical 
terminations owe to him their origin, and their introduction 
into pliilosopliical language. 

The philosophy of Wolff, comprehensible and distinct as it 
was, and by its composition in the German language more 



THE GERMAI:^ CLEAEING UP. 261 

accessible than that of Leibnitz, soon became the popular 
philosophy, and gained an extensive influence. Among the 
names which deserve credit for their scientific development of 
it, we may mention Thumming, 1687-1728; Bilfinger^ 1693- 
1750; Baumeister^ 1708-1785; Baumgarten the aesthetic, 
1714-1762 ; and his disciple Meier, 1718-1777. 



SECTION XXXVI. 

THE GERMAN CLEARING UP. 

Under the influence of the philosophy of Leibnitz and Wolfl", 
though without any immediate connection with it, there arose 
in German}" during the latter half of the eighteenth centurj^, 
an eclectic popular philosophy, whose different phases maj^ be 
embraced under the name of the German clearing up. It has 
but little significance for the history of philosophy, though 
not without importance in other respects. Its great aim was 
to secure a higher cultm-e ; and hence a cultivated and polished 
stj'le of reasoning is the form in which it philosophized. It is 
the German counterpart of the French clearing up. As the lat- 
ter closed the reahstic period of development by drawing the 
ultimate consequence of materialism, so the former closed the 
idealistic series by its tendency to an extreme subjectivism. 
To the thinkers who followed this direction, the empirical, 
individual Ego becomes the absolute ; they forget every thing 
else for it, or rather every thing else has value in their 
e3^es only in proportion as it refers and ministers to the 
subject b}^ contributing to its demands and satisfjdng its 
inner cravings. Hence the question of immortality becomes 
now the great problem of philosophy (in this relation we may 
mention Mendelssohn, 1727-1786, the most important thiiilver 
in this movement) ; the eternal duration of the individual soul 



262 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

is the chief point of interest ; the objective ideas or articles 
of faith, e.g.^ the personality of God, though not denied, 
cease to have an interest ; it was held as an established 
article of belief that we can know nothing of God. In an- 
other current of this direction, it is moral philosophy and aes- 
thetics {Garve, 1742-1798; Engel, 1741-1802; Abht, 1738- 
1766 ; Sulzer, 1720-1779) which find a scientific treatment, 
because both these possess a subjective interest. In general, 
every thing is viewed in its reference to utility, its adaptation 
to an end ; utility becomes the peculiar criterion of truth ; that 
which is not useful to the subject, or which does not minister 
to his subjective ends, is set aside. In connection with this 
turn of mind stands the prevailing teleological direction which 
the investigations of nature assumed (Beimarus, 1694-1765), 
and the utilitarian character given to ethics. The happiness 
of the individual was considered as the highest principle and 
the supreme end {Basedow, 1723-1790). Even religion is 
contemplated from this point of view. Reimarus wrote a 
treatise upon the '-'• advantages'' of religion, in which he at- 
tempted to prove that religion was not subversive of earthly 
pleasure, but rather increased it ; and Steinhart (1738-1809) 
elaborated, in a number of treatises, the theme that all wis- 
dom consists alone in attaining happiness, i.e., enduring satis- 
faction, and that the Christian religion, instead of forbidding 
this, was rather itself the true doctrine of happiness. In 
other particulars Christianity received only a moderate degree 
of respect ; wherever it laid claim to any authority disagree- 
able to the subject (as in individual doctrines lilte that of 
future punishment) , it was opposed, and in general the eflEbrt 
was made to counteract, as far as possible, the positive dogma 
by natural religion. Reimarus, for example, the most zeal- 
ous defender of theism and of the teleological investigation of 
nature, is at the same time the author of the Wolfenhilttel 
Frofpnents. By criticizing the Gospel history, and every 
thing positive and transmitted, and b}' rationalizing the su- 
pernatural in religion, the subject displayed its new-found in- 



TRANSITION TO KANT. 263 

dependence. In fine, the subjective standpoint of this period 
exhibits itself in the autobiographies and confessions then so 
prevalent, the isolated self is the object of admiring contem- 
plation {Rousseau, 1712-1778, and his Confessions) ; it be- 
holds itself mirrored in its particular conditions, sensations, 
and views — a sort of flirtation with itself, which often sinks 
to sickly sentimentality. According to all this, it is seen to 
be the extreme consequence of subjective idealism which con- 
stitutes the character of the German clearing up period, which 
thus closed the course of the idealistic development. 



SECTION XXXVII. 

TRANSITION TO KANT. 

The idealistic and the realistic developments to which we 
have been attending, each ended with a one-sided result. 
Instead of actually and internally reconciling the opposition 
between thought and being, they both issued in denying the 
one or the other of these factors. Realism had, one-sidedly, 
made matter absolute ; and ideahsm, with equal one-sided- 
ness, had endowed the empirical Ego with the same attribute, 
— extremes in which philosophy was threatened with total 
destruction. It had, in fact, in Germany as in France, be- 
come degraded to the most superficial popular philosophy. 
Then Kant arose, and brought again into one channel the 
two streams which, when separate from each other, threat- 
ened to lose themselves amid the sands. Kant is the great 
renovator of philosophy ; he reduced once more to unity and 
totality the one-sided efibrts of those who had preceded him. 
He stands in some special relation, either antagonistic or 
harmonious, to all others — to Locke no less than to Hume, 
to the Scottish philosophers no less than to the earlier Eng- 



264 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

lish and French moralists, to the philosophy of Leibnitz and 
of Wolff, as well as to the materialism of the French and 
the ntilitarianism of the German clearing up period. His 
relation to the development of a partial idealism and a one- 
sided realism ma}^ be stated somewhat as follows : Emphi- 
cism had made the Ego purel}^ passive and subordinate to the 
sensible external world — idealism had made it pm-ely active, 
and given it a sovereignty over the sensible world ; Kant 
attempted to strike a balance between these two claims, b}^ 
affirming that the Ego as practical is free and autonomic, an 
unconditioned lawgiver for itself, while as theoretical it is 
receptive, and conditioned by the phenomenal world ; but 
at the same time the theoretical Ego contains the two sides 
within itself, for if, on the one side, empiricism may be justi- 
fied upon the ground that the material and only field of all 
our knowledge is furnished by exi^erience, so on the other 
side, idealism may be justified on the ground that there is in 
all our knowledge an a iwiori factor and basis, for in expe- 
rience itself we make use of conceptions which are not fur- 
nished by experience, but are contained a priori in our under- 
standing. 

In order to obtain a general view of the very elaborate 
framework of the Kantian philosoph}^ let us briefly glance 
at its fundamental conceptions, and notice its chief positions 
and results. Kant subjected the activit}' of the human mind 
in knowing, and the origin of our experience, to his critical 
investigation. Hence his philosoph}' is called critical phi- 
losoph}', or criticism, because it aims to be essentially an 
examination of our faculty of knowledge ; it is also called 
transcendental philosoph}^, since Kant calls the reflection of 
the reason upon its relation to the objective world, a tran- 
scendental reflection (transcendental must not be confounded 
with transcendent), or, in other words, a transcendental 
knowledge is one " which does not relate so much to objects 
of knowledge, as to our mode of knowing them, in so far as 
knowledge is possible a priori." The examination of the 



TRANSITION TO KANT. 265 

faculty of knowledge, which Kant attempts in his " Critique 
of Pure Reason" shows the following results. AU knowl- 
edge is a product of two factors, the knowing subject and ' 
the external world. Of these two factors, the latter lends to 
our knowledge its material, the matter of experience, while 
the former furnishes the form, namel}', the conceptions of 
the understanding, thi'ough which a connected knowledge or 
a s^'nthesis of our perceptions into a whole of experience first 
becomes possible. If there were no external world, then 
would there be no phenomena ; if there were no understand-; 
ing, then these phenomena, or perceptions, which are infinitely 
manifold, would never be brought into the unity of a concep- 
tion, and thus no experience would be possible. Thus, while ^ 
intuitions without conceptions are blind, and conceptions 
without intuitions are empt}^, cognition is a union of the two, 
since in it the form of conception is filled with the matter of 
experience, and the matter of experience is enmeshed in 
the net of the understanding's conceptions. Nevertheless, 
we do not know things as they are in themselves. Firsts 
because the categories, or the forms of our understanding 
prevent. By bringing that which is given as the material of 
knowledge into our own conceptions as the form, there is 
manifestl}" a change produced in the objects ; the}' are thought 
of not as they are, but onl}^ as we apprehend them ; they 
appear to us only as modified b}' the categories. But besides 
this subjective addition, there is 3'et another. Secondly^ we 
do not know things as the}^ are in themselves, because even 
the intuitions which we bring within the form of the under- 
standing's conceptions, are not pure and uncolored, but are 
akeady penetrated by a subjective medium, namely, by the 
universal forms of all objects of sense, space and time. 
Space and time are also subjective additions, forms of sensu- 
ous intuition, which are just as originally present in our 
minds as the fundamental conceptions or categories of our 
understanding. That which we would represent intuitively 
to ourselves we must place in space and time, for without 
12 



266 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

these no intuition is possible. From this it follows that we 
know onl}' phenomena, and not things in themselves separate 
from space and time. 

A superficial apprehension of these Kantian principles 
might lead one to suppose that Kant's criticism did not essen- 
tiall}^ go be3'ond the standpoint of Locke's empiricism. But 
such a supposition disappears upon a careful scrutin}^ Kant 
was obliged to recognize with Hume that the conceptions, 
cause and effect, substance and attribute, and the other con- 
ceptions which the human understanding finds itself neces- 
sitated to think in the phenomena, and which constitute the 
essential elements of all thought, do not arise from an}^ expe- 
rience of the sense. For instance, when we are aflected 
through different senses, and perceive a white color, a sweet 
taste, a rough surface, etc., and predicate all these of one 
thing, as a piece of sugar, there come from without onl}^ the 
pluralit}^ of sensations, while the conception of unity cannot 
come through sensation, but is a category or conception added 
to the sensations b}' the mind itself. But instead of denying, 
for this reason, the realit}^ of these conceptions of the under- 
standing, Kant took a step in advance, assigning a peculiar 
l)rovince to this activity of the understanding, and showing 
that these forms of thought thus furnished to the matter of 
experience are immanent laws of the human intellect, the 
peculiar laws of the understanding's operations, which may 
be obtained by an accurate anal3'sis of our thinking activit}'. 
(Of these laws or conceptions there are twelve, viz., unit}', 
plurality, totality' ; reality, negation, limitation ; substan- 
tiality, causality, reciprocal action ; possibilit}', actualit}^, and 
necessit}^) Kant's theory is thus not empiricism but ideal- 
ism ; not, however, a dogmatic idealism, transferring all real- 
ity to thought (conception) , but a critical, subjective ideahsm, 
which distinguishes in the conception an objective and a sub- 
jective ehiuient, and vindicates for tlie latter a connection 
with knowledge just as essential as that of the former. 

From what has been said can be deduced the three chief 
principles of the Kantian theory of knowledge: 



TEANSITION TO KANT. 267 

1. We know only Ppienomena and not Things in Them- 
selves. — The matter of experience furnished us by the exter- 
nal world becomes so adjusted and altered in its relations 
(for we apprehend it at first under the subjective forms of 
space and time, and then under the equally subjective forms 
of our understanding's conceptions) , that it no longer repre- 
sents the thing itself in its original condition, pure, and un- 
mixed. 

2. Nevertheless Experience is the only Province of 
OUR Knowledge, and there is no Science of the Uncon- 
ditioned. — This follows of course, for since all knowledge 
is the product of the matter of experience, and the form of 
the understanding, and depends thus upon the cooperation 
of the sense and the understanding, no knowledge is possible 
of objects for which one of these factors, experience, fails us ; 
cognition through intellectual conceptions alone is illusory, 
since for the conception of the unconditioned posited by the 
understanding, the sense can furnish no corresponding object. 
Hence the questions which Kant places at the head of his 
whole Critique : how are sj^nthetical judgments a priori pos- 
sible? i.e., can we widen our knowledge a jjriori, by thought 
alone, beyond the sensuous experience? is a knowledge of 
the supersensible possible ? must be answered with an uncon- 
ditional negative. 

3. If, nevertheless, human knowledge persists in endeav- 
oring to overstep the narrow limits of experience, i.e., to 
become transcendent, it involves itself in the greatest contra- 
dictions. The three ideas of the reason, the psychological, 
the cosmological, and the theological, viz., (a) the idea of an 
absolute subject, i.e., of the soul, or of immortality, (5) the 
idea of the world as a totality of all conditions and phe- 
nomena, (c) the idea of a most perfect being — are so wholly 
without application to the empirical actuahty, are so evidently 
mere products of the reason, regulative, and not constitutive 
principles, to which no object in experience corresponds, that 
whenever they are applied to experience, i.e., are conceived 



268 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

of as actually existing objects, the}^ lead to mere logical errors, 
to the most obvious paralogisms, and sophisms. These 
errors, which are parti}' false conclusions and paralogisms, 
and parti}' unavoidable contradictions of the reason with 
itself, Kant undertook to demonstrate in reference to all the 
ideas of the reason. Take, e.^., the cosmological idea. 
Whenever the reason applies to the universe an}- transcendent 
conception, z.e., attempts to appl}' the forms of the finite to 
the infinite, it is at once evident that the antithesis of such a 
proposition can be proved just as well as the thesis. The 
afl3rmation that the world has a beginning in time, and limits 
in space, can be proved as well as, and no better than its 
opposite, that the world has no beginning in time and no 
spacial limits. Whence it follows that all speculative cosmol- 
ogy is an assumption b}' the reason. So also with the theo- 
logical idea ; it rests on mere logical paralogisms, and false 
conclusions, as Kant, with great acuteness, shows in reference 
to each of the proofs for the being of a God, which previous 
dogmatic philosophies had attempted. It is therefore impos- 
sible to prove and to conceive of the existence of a God as a 
Supreme Being, or of the soul as a real subject, or of a com- 
prehending universe. The peculiar problems of metaphysic 
lie outside the province of philosophical knowledge. 

Such is the negative part of the Kantian philosoph}' ; its 
positive complement is found in the ' ' Critique of the Practical 
Reason.'''' While the mind as theoretical and cognitive is 
wholl}^ conditioned, and ruled by the objective and sensible 
world, and thus knowledge is only possible through intuition ; 
yet as practical it goes wholly beyond the given (the sense 
impulse) , and is determined onl}" through the categorical im- 
perative, and the moral law, which is itself, and is therefore 
free and autonomic ; the ends wdiich it pursues are those 
which itself, as moral spirit, places before itself; objects are 
no more its masters and lawgivers, to which it must 3'ield if 
it would know the truth, but its servants, which it may use 
for its own ends in actualizing its moral law. Wliile the 



KAKT . 269 

mind as theoretical is united to a world of sense and phe- 
nomena, a world obedient to necessary laws, the mind as 
practical, by virtue of the freedom essential to it, b}' virtue 
of its direction towards an absolute aim, belongs to a purel}^ 
intelligible and supersensible world. This is the practical 
idealism of Kant, from which he derives the three practical 
postulates of the immortality of the soul, moral freedom, and 
the being of a God, which, as theoretical truths, had been 
before denied. 

With this brief sketch for om- guidance, let us now pass to 
a more extended exposition of the Kantian Philosophy. 



SECTION XXXVIII. 

KAXT. 

Immanuel Kant was born at Konigsberg in Prussia, April 
22, 1724. His father an honest saddlemaker, and his mother 
a prudent and pious woman, exerted a good influence upon 
him in his earliest youth. In the ^^ear 1740 he entered the 
universit}' as a student of theolog}", though he devoted the 
most of his time to philosophj^, mathematics, and ph3'sics. 
He commenced his literar}' career in his twentj'-third 3'ear, in 
1747, with a treatise entitled " Thoughts concerning the true 
Estimate of Living Force." He was obUged b}' his pecuniary 
circumstances to spend some j'ears as a private tutor in dif- 
ferent families in the neighborhood of Konigsberg. In 1 755 he 
settled at the university as '•^ privat-docent" which position he 
held for fifteen j'ears, dm-ing which time he gave lectures upon 
logic, metaphysic, physics, mathematics, and also, during the 
latter part of the time, upon ethics, anthi'opology, and physi- 
cal geography. At this period he adhered for the most part 
to the school of Wolff, though early expressing his doubts in 



270 A HISTORY OF THILOSOPHY. 

respect of dogmatism. From the publication of his first trea- 
tise he applied himself to writing with unwearied activity, 
though his great work, the " Critique of pure Heason,'' did 
not appear till his fifty-seventh 3'ear, 1781. His " Critique 
of the practiced Reason" was issued in 1787, and his ^'-Re- 
ligion icithin the Bounds of pure Reason^'' in 1793. In 1770, 
in his forty-sixth 3'ear, he was chosen ordinar}^ professor of 
logic and metaplwsic, a chau' which he continued to fill unin- 
terruptedl}' till 1797, when the weakness of age obliged him 
to resign it. Invitations to professorships at Jena, Erlangen, 
and Halle, were given him and rejected. As soon as he be- 
came known, the noblest and most active minds flocked from 
all parts of Germany to Konigsberg, to sit at the feet of the 
sage who was master there. One of his admirers, Reuss, 
professor of philosophy at Wiirzburg, who abode but a brief 
time at Konigsberg, entered his chamber, declaring that he 
had come one hundred and sixty miles in order to see Kant 
and to speak with him. — During the last seventeen 3'ears of 
his life he occupied a little house with a garden, in a quiet 
quarter of the cit}^, where his calm and regular mode of life 
might be undisturbed. His mode of life was ver}' simple, 
though he enjoyed good living and societ3\ He never left 
his native province even to go as far as Dantzic. His long- 
est journey's were to visit some countr3'-seats in the environs 
of Konigsberg. Nevertheless, as his lectures upon ph3-sical 
geograph3' testif3', he acquired b3' reading a ver3^ accurate 
knowledge of the earth. He knew all of Rousseau's works ; 
Emile at its first appearance detained him for a number of 
da3'S from his customar3' walks. Kant died Feb. 12, 1804, 
in the eightieth 3-ear of his life. He was of medium stature, 
finel3' built, with blue C3'es, and always enjoyed sound health 
till in his latter 3'ears, when he became childish. He was 
never married. His character was marked b3' an earnest 
love of truth, great candor, and simple modest3'. 

Though Kant's great epoch-making work, the " Critique 
of pure Reason" did not appear till 1781, }^et had he previ- 



KANT. 271 

ously shown an approach towards the same standpoint in 
several smaller treatises, and particularl}^ in his inaugural 
dissertation which appeared in 1770, " Concerning the Form 
and the Principles of the Sensible and Intelligible Worlds.'' 
Kant himself refers the inner genesis of his critical stand- 
point to Hume. "I freely confess," he saj's, "that it was 
David Hume who first roused me from my dogmatic slumber, 
and gave a different direction to my investigations in the 
field of speculative philosophy." The critical ^iew, there- 
fore, first became developed in Kant as he left the dogmatic 
metaph3'sical school, the Wolfian philosophy in which he had 
grown up, and went over to the stud}' of a sceptical empui- 
cism in Hume. " Hitherto," saj'S Kant at the close of his 
Critique of pure Reason^ " men have been obliged to proceed 
either dogmatically, like Wolff, or sceptically, like Hume. 
The critical road alone is 3'et open. If the reader has had 
the courtesy and patience to travel along this in m}- com- 
pany, let him now contribute his aid in making this bj'-path 
into a highway, in order that that which many centuries 
could not effect may now be attained before the expnation 
of the present, namely, that the reason ma}' be perfectly sat- 
isfied in respect of that which has hitherto, but in vain, 
engaged its cmiosity." Kant had the clearest consciousness 
respecting the relation of his criticism to the pre^'ious phi- 
losophy. He compares the revolution which he himself had 
brought about in philosophy with that wrought by Coperni- 
cus in asti'onomy . ' ' Hitherto it has been assumed that all 
our knowledge must regulate itself according to its objects ; 
but all attempts to make any thing out of them a priori^ 
through notions whereby our knowledge might be enlarged, 
has proved, under this i^re- supposition, abortive. Let us, 
then, try for once whether we do not succeed better with the 
problems of metaphysic by assuming that objects must be 
adapted to the nature of our knowledge, a mode of viewing 
the subject which accords much better with the desired possi- 
bility of a knowledge of objects a priori^ which must decide 



272 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

something concerniug them before they are given us. The 
circumstances are, in this case, precisely the same as with the 
first thoughts of Copernicus, who, finding that his attempt to 
explain the motions of the heavenly bodies did not succeed, 
when he assumed the whole starry host to revolve around the 
spectator, tried whether he should not succeed better, if he 
left the spectator himself to move, and the stars on the con- 
tvsiry at rest." In these words we have the principle of a 
subjective idealism, most clearly and decidedly expressed. 

In the succeeding exposition of the Kantian philosoph}^ we 
shall most suitabl}^ follow the classification adopted by Kant 
himself. His principle of classification is a ps3Thological 
one. All the faculties of the soul, he sa^'s, may be reduced 
to three, which are incapable of any farther reduction ; cogni- 
tion, emotion, volition. The first facult}^ contains the prin- 
ciples, the governing laws for all the three. In so far as the 
faculty of cognition contains the principles of knowledge it- 
self, is it theoretical reason, and so far as it contains the 
principles of volition and action, is it practical reason, while, 
so far as it contains the principles which regulate the feelings 
of pleasure and pain, is it a faculty of judgment. Thus the 
Kantian philosophy (on its critical side) divides itself into 
three critiques, (1) Critique of pure, i.e., theoretical Reason, 
(2) Critique of practical Reason, (3) Critique of the Judg- 
ment. 

1. Critique of Pure Reason. — The critique of pure rea- 
son, saj'S Kant, is the inventory of all our possessions 
through pm-e reason, S3^stematically arranged. What are 
these possessions? What do we contribute to the act of 
cognition? To answer this question, Kant explores the two 
cliief fields of our theoretical consciousness, the two chief 
factors of all knowledge, the sense and the understanding. 
Firstly : what does sense or the facult}^ of intuition possess a 
]priori ? Secondly : what is the a priori possession of our 
understanding? The first of these questions is discussed in 
the Transcendental Esthetic (a title which we must take not 



KANT. 273 

in the sense now commonly attached to the word, but in its 
etymological signification as the ' ' science of the a priori 
principles of the sense") ; and the second in the Transcen- 
dental Logic, principally in the Analytic. Sense and under- 
standing are thus the two factors of all knowledge, the two 
stems — as Kant expresses it — of our knowledge, which may 
spring from a common root, though this is unknown to us : 
sense is the receptivit}^, and understanding the spontaneity 
of om^ cognitive faculty ; by the sense, which can only furnish 
intuitions, objects are given to us ; by the understanding, 
which forms conceptions, these objects are thought. Concep- 
tions without intuitions are empt}^ ; intuitions without con- 
ceptions are blind. Intuitions and conceptions constitute the 
reciprocal^ complemental elements of our intellectual activ- 
ity. What now are the a priori principles respectively of our 
knowledge through the sense and through thought? The 
first of these questions, as already said, is answered by — 

1. The Transcendental ^Esthetic. — To anticipate at 
once the answer, we may say that the a priori principles of 
our knowledge through the sense, the original forms of sensu- 
ous intuition, are space and time. Space is the form of the 
external sense, by means of which objects are given to us as 
existing outside of ourselves, and also outside of and beside 
one another ; time is the form of the inner sense, 'by means 
of which the circumstances of our own soul-life become objects 
to our consciousness. If we abstract from every thing be- 
longing to the matter of our sensations, space remains as the 
universal form in which all the materials of the external sense 
must be arranged. If we abstract from every thing which be- 
longs to the matter of our inner sense, time remains as the 
form which the movement of the mind had filled. Space and 
time are the highest forms of the outer and inner sense. That 
these forms lie a priori in the human mind, Kant proves, 
first, directly from the nature of these conceptions themselves ; 
and, secondly, indirectly by showing that without a priori ^yq,- 
supposing these conceptions, certain sciences of undoubted 



274 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

validit}' would be impossible. The first of these he calls the 
metaphysical^ and the second the transcendental exposition. 

(1) In the metaphysical exposition it is to be shown, (a) 
that space and time are given a priori^ (p) that they both 
belong to the sense (and therefore to the aesthetic) and not to 
the understanding (and therefore not to the logic) ^ i.e., that 
the}' are intuitions and not conceptions, (a) That space and 
time are a priori is clear from the fact that every experience, 
before it can be, must presuppose alread}' a space and time. 
I perceive something as external to me ; but this externality 
presupposes space. Again, I have two sensations either 
simultaneous or successive ; this presupposes time. (6) Space 
and time, howcA^er, are 'by no means conceptions, but forms 
of intuition, and intuitions themselves. For in every univer- 
sal conception the individual is comprehended under it, but 
not as a part of it ; but in space and time, all individual spaces 
and times are parts of and contained within the universal 
space and the universal time. 

(2) In the transcendental exposition Kant draws his proof 
indirect!}' by showing that certain sciences, universally recog- 
nized as such, can only be conceived upon the supposition 
that space and time are a priori. The science of pure mathe- 
matics is possible only on the ground that space and time are 
pure and not empulcal intuitions. Kant therefore compre- 
hends the whole problem of the Transcedental u^sthetic in 
the question. How are pure mathematical sciences possible? 
The sphere, says Kant, within which pure mathematics 
moves, is space and time. But mathematics posits its prin- 
ciples as universal and necessary. Universal and necessary 
principles, however, can never come from experience ; they 
must have an a priori ground ; consequently it is impossible 
that space and time, from which mathematics takes its prin- 
ciples, should be first given a posteriori; they must be given 
a priori as pure intuitions. Hence we have a knowledge a 
priori^ and a science which rests upon a priori grounds ; and 
the matter simply resolves itself into this : whosoever would 



KANT. 275 

deny that a priori knowledge can be, must also at the same 
time deny the possibility of mathematics. But if the funda- 
mental truths of mathematics are intuitions a priori^ we 
might conclude that there may be also a priori conceptions, 
out of which, in connection with these pure intuitions, a meta- 
ph^^sic could be formed. This is the positive result of the 
Transcendental uEstlietic^ though with this positive side the 
negative is closely connected. Intuition or immediate per- 
ception can be attained by man only through the sense, whose 
universal intuitions are only space and time. But since these 
intuitions of space and time are not relations of objects them- 
selves, but only the subjective forms under which they are 
perceived by us, there is something subjective mingled with 
all our intuitions ; we can know things not as they are in 
themselves, but only as the}^ appear to us through these sub- 
jective media, space and time. This is the meaning of the 
Kantian principle, that we do not know things in themselves, 
but only phenomena. But if on this account we should affirm 
that all things are in space and time, this would be too much ; 
they are in space and time only for us, — all phenomena of 
the external sense appearing both in space and in time, and 
all phenomena of the inner sense appearing onty in time. By 
this, however, Kant in no way intended to admit that the 
world of sense is mere appearance. He affirmed, that he con- 
tended for the empirical reality as well as for the transcenden- 
tal ideality of space and time : things external to ourselves 
exist just as certainly as do we and the circumstances within 
us, only they are not presented to us as thej^ are in them- 
selves and in their independence of space and of time. In 
regard to the thing-in-itself which stands back of the phenom- 
ena, Kant intimates in the first edition of his Critique that 
it is not impossible that the Ego and the thing-in-itself 
are one and the same thinking substance. This thought, 
which Kant threw out as a mere conjecture, was the source 
of all the wider developments of the latest philosoph}^ It 
was afterwards the fundamental idea of the Fichtian system. 



276 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

that the Ego does not become affected through a thmg-in-itself 
essentially foreign to it, but purely through itself. In the sec- 
ond edition of his Critique^ however, Kant omitted this sentence. 

The Transcendental u^sthetic closes with the discussion 
of space and time, z'.e., with the discovery of the a priori 
elements of sensation. But the human mind cannot be satis- 
fied with the mere receptivity of sense ; it does not simply 
receive objects, but it applies to these its own spontaneity, 
and attempts to think them through its conceptions, and 
embrace them in the forms of its understanding. It is the 
object of the Transcendental Analytic (which forms the first 
part of the Transcendental Logic) , to examine these a priori 
conceptions or forms of thought which lie originally in the 
understanding, as the forms of space and time do in the 
intuitive faculty. 

2. The Transcendental Analytic. — It is the fii'st prob- 
lem of the Analytic to attain the pure conceptions of the 
understanding. Aristotle had akeady attempted to form a 
table of these conceptions or categories, but he had collected 
them empirically instead of deriving them from a common 
principle, and had numbered among them space and time, 
though these are no pure conceptions of the understanding, 
but onl}^ forms of intuition. But if we would have a com- 
plete and regularly arranged table of all the pure conceptions 
of the understanding, or all the a priori forms of thought, we 
must look for a principle from which we may derive them. 
This principle is the judgment. The general fundamental 
conceptions of the understanding may be accurately attained 
if we examine all the different modes or forms of judgment. 
For this end Kant considers the different kinds of judgment 
which are treated of in the science of common logic. Now 
logic shows that there are four kinds of judgment, viz., judg- 
ments of — 

Quantity. Quality. Relation. Modality. 

Universal, AfTirmativc, Catc^^orical, Problematical, 

Particular, Negative, Hypothetical, Assertory, 

Singular. Infinite or Limitative. Disjunctive. Apodictic. 



KANT. 277 

From these judgments are obtained the same number of 
fundamental conceptions or categories of the understanding, 
viz. : — 

Quantity. Quality. Relation. Modality. 

Totality, Reality, Substance and In- Possibility and Im- 

Plurality, Negation, herence, possibility, 

Unity. Limitation. Causality and De- Being and Not-be- 

pendence, ing. 

Reciprocity. Necessity and Con- 
tingency. 

From these twelve categories all the rest may be derived 
b}' combination. From the fact that these categories are 
shown to belong a priori to the understanding, it follows, 
(1) that these conceptions are a priori^ and hence have a 
necessary and universal validity, (2) that by themselves they 
are empty forms, and attain a content only through intuition. 
But since our intuition is wholl}^ through the sense, these 
categories have validitj^ only in their application to sensuous 
intuition, which in turn is raised from mere perception to 
experience proper only when apprehended under the con- 
ceptions of the understanding. — Here we meet a second 
question : how does this happen ? How do objects become 
subsumed under these forms of the understanding, which by 
themselves are so empty? 

There would be no difficulty with this subsumption if the 
objects and the conceptions of the understanding were the 
same in kind. But they are not. Because objects come to 
the understanding from the sense, they are by nature sen- 
suous. Hence the question arises : how can these sensible 
objects be subsumed under pure conceptions of the under- 
standing? how can the categories be applied to objects? 
how can rules be estabhshed in reference to the manner in 
which we must think things in accordance with the catego- 
ries ? This application of the categories to objects cannot be 
immediate ; there must be a mean between the two, a third, 
which must have something in common with each, i.e.., which 



278 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

is in one respect pure and a priori^ and in another sensible. 
The two pure intuitions of the Transcendental Esthetic, 
space and time, especially the latter, are of such a nature. 
A transcendentally determined property of time, as for exam- 
ple, that of simultaneousness, is on the one hand homoge- 
neous with the categories, since it is a priori, and on the 
other homogeneous with phenomena, since every phenomenon 
must be represented as existing in time. For this reason 
Kant calls the transcendental determinations of time trans- 
cendental schema, and the use which the understanding makes 
of them, he calls the transcendental schematism of the pure 
understanding. The schema is a product of the imaginative 
facult}^, which spontaneously gives to the inner sense this 
determination, though the schema is something other than a 
mere image. An image is always merely an individual and 
determinate intuition ; the schema on the other hand is a 
universal form which the imagination produces as the repre- 
sentation of a categor}', and which is the mean through which 
the category becomes applicable to sensuous phenomena. 
Hence the schema can onl}- exist in the conception, and 
never suffers itself to be brought within the sensuous intui- 
tion. If, now, we consider more closely the schematism of 
the understanding, and seek the transcendental time-deter- 
mination for every categor}^, we find that : 

(1) Quantity has for a universal schema series in time or 
number, i.e., the successive addition of homogeneous units. 
I can represent to myself the pure understanding conception 
of magnitude onl}^ b}^ bringing into the imagination a number 
of units one after another. If I stop this process at its be- 
ginning, the result is unity ; if I let it go on farther I have 
plurality ; and if I suffer it to continue without limit, totality. 
If I wish to apply this conception of magnitude to phenomena, 
I find it to be possible only by means of this movement from 
one part of the homogeneous to another. 

(2) Quality has for its schema the content of time. If I 
would apply to any thing sensuous the pure conception of 



KANT. 279 

realitj', which is one of the categories of quality^ I must rep- 
resent to myself a filled time, a content in time. That is 
real which fills a time. If also I would represent to mj-^self 
the pure understanding conception of negation, I bring into 
thought a void time. 

(3) The categories of relation take their schemata from 
the order of time ; for if I would represent to myself a deter- 
minate relation, I always bring into thought a determinate 
order of things in time. Substance appears as the persis- 
tence of the real in time ; causality as regular succession in 
time ; reciprocity as the regular coetaneousness of the deter- 
minations in the one substance, with the determinations in 
the other. 

(4) The categories of modality take their schema from the 
whole of time, i.e., from the manner in which an object be- 
longs to time. The schema of possibility is the general har- 
mony of a representation with the conditions of time ; the 

rschema of actuality is the existence of an object in a deter- 
mined time ; that of necessity is the existence of an object 
for all time. 

We are now, then, furnished with all that we need for sub- 
suming sensuous objects under the categories, or for applying 
the categories to phenomena in order to show how through 
this application experience — a coherent series of phenomena 
— arises. We have (1) the different classes of categories, 
which, since they are valid for the entire sphere of intuition, 
render possible the S3^nthesis of perceptions into a whole of 
experience ; and (2) the schemata by means of which we can 
apply these categories to the objects of sense. With every 
category and its schema is given a different method of bring- 
ing phenomena under a universally A^alid form of the under- 
standing, through which unity is introduced into cognition. 
With every categor}^, therefore, there are given principles of 
cognition, a priori rules, points of view, to which we subject 
phenomena in order to elevate them to experience. These 
principles, these most general, universally valid synthetic 



280 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHr. 

judgments, correspond to the four classes of the categories 
and are as follows: (1) All phenomena, since the}^ can be 
apprehended onty under the forms of space and time, are in 
form magnitudes, quanta^ manifolds, which the conception of 
a definite space or time gives, and thus extensive magnitudes 
or wholes constructed out of parts successively added. In- 
tuition is possible only because our imagination apprehends 
phenomena as extensive quanta in space and time. For this 
reason, also, all intuitions are subject to the a priori laws of 
extensive quantity', e.^., to the law of infinite divisibility, to 
the laws of construction in space as they are unfolded in 
geometry, etc. These laws are the axioms of intuition^ the 
universally valid rules of all intuition. (2) In respect of 
their sensuous content, their realit}^, all phenomena are inten- 
sive magnitudes ; since without a greater or less degree of 
impression on the sense no perception of a definite object, 
of a realit}', would be possible. This magnitude of the real, 
which is the object of sensation, is merely intensive, i.e., 
determinable in degree, since sensation (as such) contains 
nothing extended in space or time. All the objects of per- 
ception thus are intensive as well as extensive quantities fill- 
ing space and time, and are therefore subject to the laws of 
both extension and intension. All the forces and qualities 
of things have an infinite number of degrees which may in- 
crease or decrease ; whatever is real has always an intensive 
magnitude, however small; this intensive may be indepen- 
dent of extensive magnitude, etc. These principles are the 
anticipations of perception, i-ules which are given antece- 
dently to all perception, and direct the investigation of it. 
(3) Experience is possible only through the conception of a 
necessary connection of perceptions. Without a necessary 
order of things and thck relations in time there could be no 
knowledge of a determinate connection of phenomena, but 
only of accidental individual perceptions. 

(a) The first principle which relates to this point is : 
throuf/hout all the changes of phenomena the substance remains 



KANT. 281 

unchanged. Where there is nothing permanent there is 
also no definite relation or duration of time. K I would 
posit one state of a thing as prior or subsequent to other 
states of the same thing, i.e., if I would distinguish these 
states by their relation to time, I must opposit the thing itself 
to the states which it passes through, I must think of it as 
perduring through all the changes of its states, that is as a 
self-identical substance. (6) The second principle is : all 
changes occur in accordance ivith the laio of cause and effect. 
The succession of different states in time is fixed and determi- 
nate only when I can posit one as the cause of the other, and 
as, therefore, necessarily (according to a rule or law) pre- 
ceding it, and the other as effect of the first, and as, therefore, 
necessarily succeeding it. The relation of causality alone 
gives determinate succession in time ; but without a deter- 
minate succession in time there could be no experience ; 
hence the relation of causality is the foundation of all knowl- 
edge through experience ; the dependence of one thing upon 
another through this relation is the basis of all connection 
between objects, — without it we should have only discon- 
nected subjective representations, (c) The thkd principle 
is : all co-existent substcmces are in complete reciprocity. Only 
those things which reciprocally affect one another are deter- 
mined, posited as inseparable in time. These three principles 
are the analogies of experience^ — rules for apprehending the 
relations of things, without which there could be for us no 
whole, no nature of things, but merely individual, discon- 
nected phenomena. (4) To the categories of modality corre- 
spond the postulates of empirical thought. These are : (a) 
that which conforms to the formal conditions of experience, 
is possible, and can become phenomenon; (b) that which 
agrees with the material conditions of experience is actual, 
and is phenomenon; (c) that, whose connection with the 
actual is determined according to the universal conditions of 
experience, is necessary, and must exist. 

These are the only possible authentic synthetic judgments 



282 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

a priori; the}' are the basis of all metaphj'sic. But it must 
not be forgotten that we are entitled to make only an empiii- 
cal use of all these conceptions and principles, and that we 
must ever apph' them onl}' to things as objects of a possible 
experience, and ncA'er to things in themselves ; for the con- 
ception without an object is an empty form, to which an 
object can be given onl}' through pm-e intuition ; and pure 
intuition again, — the pure forms, space and time, — itself 
needs to be filled b}^ sensuous perception. Hence, without 
reference to human experience, these a priori conceptions 
and principles are nothing but a sporting of the imagination 
and the understanding, with then- representations. Their 
pecuhar function is that they enable us to spell perceptions, 
that we may read them as experiences. But here one is apt 
to fall into a delusion which can hardly be avoided. Since 
the categories are not gi'ounded upon sensation, but have an 
a priori origin, it would seem as though their application 
would reach far beyond the sense ; but such a ^iew is a delu- 
sion ; our conceptions are not able to lead us to a knowledge 
of things in themselves {noumena) since our intuition gives 
us onl}' phenomena for the content of our conceptions, and 
the thing in itself can never be given in a possible experience ; 
our knowledge remains limited to phenomena. The source 
of aU confusions and errors and strife in previous metaph3-sic, 
was in confounding the phenomenal with the noumenal world. 
Besides the categories or conceptions of the understanding, 
which have been considered, and which relate primarih' to 
experience, though often applied erroneousl}' bej'ond the 
province of experience, there are other similar conceptions 
whose peculiar function is only to deceive ; conceptions whose 
chief chai'acteristic is the transgression of the limits of ex- 
perience, and which ma}' consequent!}' be called transcendent. 
These are the fundamental conceptions and principles of the 
previous metaphysic. To examine these conceptions, and 
destroy the appearance of objective science and knowledge, 
which they falsely exhibit, is the problem of the Transcendeii' 
tal Dialectic (the second part of the transcendental logic). 



KANT. 283 

3. The Transce^tjental Dialectic. — The reason is dis- 
tinguished from the understanding in its more restricted sense. 
As the understanding has its categories, the reason has its 
ideas ; as the understanding forms fundamental maxims 
from conceptions, the reason fonns principles from ideas, in 
which the maxims of the understanding have then* highest 
confii^mation. The peculiar work of the reason is, in general, 
to find the unconditioned for the conditioned knowledge of 
the understanding, and thus to reduce it to perfect unity. 
Hence the reason is the faculty of the unconditioned, or of 
principles ; but since it has no immediate reference to objects, 
but only to the understanding and its judgments, its activity 
must remain an immanent one. Were the supreme unity of 
reason to be taken not merely in a transcendental sense, but 
considered as an actual object of knowledge, it would be 
transcendent, since it would involve the application of the 
categories of the understanding to the knowledge of the un- 
conditioned. From this transcendent and false use of the 
categories arises the transcendental illusion which decoys us 
beyond experience, by the delusive pretext of widening the 
domain of the pure understanding. It is the problem of the 
transcendental logic to disclose this transcendental illusion. 

The speculative ideas of the reason, derived from the three 
kinds of logical S3'llogism, the categorical, the hA'pothetical, 
and the disjunctive, are thi'eefold. 

(1) The psychological idea, the idea of the soul, as a 
thinking substance (the object hitherto of rational ps3-- 
chology) . 

(2) The cosmological idea, the idea of the world as in- 
cluding all phenomena (the object hitherto of cosmolog}') . 

(3) The theological idea, the idea of God as the highest 
condition of the possibility of all things (the object hitherto 
of rational theologj^) . 

But with these ideas, in which the reason attempts to apply 
the categories of the understanding to the unconditioned, the 
reason becomes unavoidably entangled in a semblance and an 



284 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

illusion. This transcendental semblance, or this optical illu- 
sion of the reason, exhibits itself differently in each of the 
different ideas. ATith the ps}xhological idea the reason per- 
petrates a simple paralogism (paralogisms of pm-e reason) 
while with the cosmological it finds itself driven to conti'adic- 
torj affirmations or antinomies, and, with the theological, it 
wanders about in an empty ideal. 

(1) The psychological Idea, or the Paralogisms of the pure 
Reason. 

Kant has attempted, under this rubric, to overthi'ow all 
rational psjxhology as this had been previously apprehended. 
Rational psj'cholog}' had considered the soul as a spiritual 
thing with the attribute of immaterialit}' ; as a simple sub- 
stance with the attribute of incorruptibilit}' ; as a numericall}' 
identical, intellectual substance with the predicate of per- 
sonalit}' ; as an unextended and thinking being with the 
l^redicate of immortalit}'. All these principles of rational 
ps3xhology, sa3's Kant, are surreptitious ; the}' are all derived 
from the one premise, "I think"; but this "I thinli " is 
neither intuition nor conception, but a simple consciousness, 
an act of the mind which attends, connects, and bears in 
itself all representations and conceptions. This thinking is 
now falsel}' taken as a real thing. For the Ego as subject is 
substituted the existence of the Ego as object, as soul ; and 
what belongs anal3i:icall3' to the former is predicated S3'ntheti- 
cally of the latter. But in order to treat the Ego also as 
object, and to be able to appl}" to it categories, it must be 
given empiricall}', in intuition, which is not the case. From 
all this it follows that the proofs for immortalit}' rest upon 
false conclusions. I can, indeed, separate m^' pure thinlving 
ideally from tlie bod}' ; but obviousl}', it does not follow from 
this that my thinking can exist really when separate from the 
body. The result which Kant derives from his critique of 
rational i)S3'chology is this, viz., there is no rational ps3'chol- 
og3' as a doctrine which can furnish us with anv addition to 
our self-knowledge, but onl}^ as a discipline, which places im- 



KAKT. 285 

passable limits to the speculative reason in this field, in order 
that it may neither abandon itself to a soulless materiahsm, 
nor lose itself in the delusion of a, for us in life, groundless 
spmtualism. In this respect rational psj'cholog}^ would rather 
remind us, that this refusal of our reason to give a satisfac- 
tor}' answer to the questions which stretch bej'ond this life, 
should be regarded as an intimation of the reason for us to 
leave this fruitless and superfluous speculation, and appty our 
self-knowledge to some fruitful and practical use. 

(2) The Antinomies of Cosmology. 

The cosmological ideas cannot be completel}^ enumerated 
without the aid of the categories. (1) So far as the quantity 
of the world is concerned, space and time are the original 
quanta of all intuition. In a quantitative respect, therefore, 
something must be established in reference to the totalit}^ of 
the times and spaces of the world. (2) In respect of qualitj- 
something must be determined in reference to the divisibility 
of matter. (3) In respect of relation, the complete series of 
causes must be sought for the existing effects in the world. 
(4) In respect of modalitj^, the accidental according to its 
conditions, or the complete dependence of the accidental 
in the phenomenal world, must be conceived. When, now, 
the reason attempts to establish determinations respecting 
these problems, it finds itself at once entangled in a contra- 
diction with itself. Directly contrary affirmations can be 
made with equal vahdity in reference to each of these four 
points. We can show, upon grounds equally valid, (1) the 
thesis; the world has a beginning in time and limits in space ; 
and the antithesis, the world has neither beginning in time 
nor hmit in space. (2) The thesis : ever}?- compound sub- 
stance in the world consists of simple parts, and there exists 
nothing else than the simple and that which it composes ; and 
the antithesis : no compound thing exists of simple parts, and 
there exists nothing simple in the world. (3) The thesis : 
causality according to the laws of natin-e, is not the only 
causalit}" from which the phenomena of the world may be 



286 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

deduced, but these may be explained through a causality" in 
freedom ; and the antithesis : there is no freedom, but every 
thing in the world happens according to natural laws. Lastly, 
(4) the thesis : something belongs to the world either as a 
part of it or as its cause, which is an absolutely necessary 
being ; and the antithesis : there exists no absolute^ neces- 
sar}^ being as cause of the world, either in the world or with- 
out it. From this dialectic conflict of the cosmological ideas, 
there follows at once the worthlessness of the whole sti-uggle. 

(3) The Ideal of the ];)ure Reason or the Idea of God. 

Kant shows at first how the reason comes in the idea of a 
most real being {ens realissimum) , and then turns himself 
against the efforts of previous metaphysics to prove its valid 
existence. His critique of the arguments previously emplo3'ed 
to prove the existence of a God, is essentJAll}' the following. 

(a) The Ontological 'proof. — The a^ument here is as 
follows : it is possible that there is a most real being ; now 
existence is implied in the conception of all realitj^ : to deu}^, 
therefore, its real existence, is to den}- the possibilit}^ of a 
most real being, — which is contradictor}'. But, answers 
Kant, existence is not at all a realit}', or real predicate which 
can be added to the conception of a thing, but it is the posi- 
tion of a thing with all its properties. The conception of a 
thing loses none of its properties when the predicate of exis- 
tence is taken from it. Hence though all its propei-ties belong 
to it, it by no means follows that it possesses existence also. 
Hence if it have an}' property, it does not at all follow that it 
possesses existence. Being is nothing but the logical copula, 
which does not in the least enlarge the content of the subject. 
A hundred actual dollars, e.g.., contain no more than a hun- 
dred possible ones ; there is only a difference betv,^een them 
in reference to my own wealth. Thus the most real being 
may with perfect proprietj- be conceived of as the most real, 
while at the same time it should only be conceived of as pos- 
sible, and not as actual. It was therefore wholly unnatural, 
and a mere play of school wit, to take an idea which had 



KAXT. 287 

been arbitrarily formed, and deduce from it the existence of 
its corresponding object. An}^ effort and toil which might be 
spent upon this famous proof is thus onlj- thrown aw a}', and a 
man would from mere ideas become no richer in knowledge 
than a merchant would Increase his property by adding a 
number of ciphers to the balance of his accounts. 

(6) The Cosniological proof . — While the ontological proof 
concludes with the existence of an absolute being, the cosmo- 
logical proof begins with necessary existence. If any thing 
exists there must also exist an absolutely necessary being as 
its cause. But now there exists at least I myself, and there 
must hence also exist an absolutel}^ necessary being as 
my cause. The last cosmological antinomy is brought in to 
criticise the argument at this stage. The conclusion is errone- 
ous, because from ^ i^henomenal and the accidental a neces- 
sary being above Sperience is inferred. Moreover, if we 
allow the conclusion to be vahd, it is still no God which it 
gives us. Hence the farther inference is made : that being 
can alone be necessar}^ which includes all realit}' within itself. 
If now this proposition should be reversed, and the affirmation 
made that that being which includes all realit}' is absolutel}' 
necessar}', then have we again the ontological proof, and the 
cosmological falls with this. In the cosmological proof, the 
reason uses the trick of bringing forth as a new argument an 
old one with a changed dress, that it might seem to have the 
power of summoning two witnesses. 

(c) The PhysiGO-theological proof. — If thus neither con- 
ception nor experience can furnish a proof for the divine ex- 
istence, there still remains a third attempt, viz., to start from 
a determinate experience and endeavor to see whether the 
existence of a supreme being cannot be inferred from the ar- 
rangement and condition of things in the world. Such is the 
physico-theological proof, which starts from the evidences of 
design in natiu'e, and du'ects its argument as follows : ever3'- 
where in the universe there exists conformity of means to 
ends (design) , but this design is extraneous to the things of 



288 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the world, ?".c., it is so far as the}' are concerned accidental, 
and adheres to them only contingentl}' ; there exists therefore 
for this design a necessar}^ cause which works with wisdom and 
inteUigence ; this necessar}' cause must be the most real being ; 
the most real being has therefore necessary existence. — To 
this Kant answers : The ph3'sico-theological proof is the oldest, 
clearest, and most conformable to the common reason. But it 
is not demonstration (apodictic). It infers, from the form of 
the world, a proportionate and sufficient cause of this form ; 
but in this wa}^ we only attain an originator of the form of the 
world, and not an originator of its matter, a world-builder, 
and not a world-creator. To help out with this difficult}' the 
cosmological proof is brought in, and the originator of the 
form becomes conceived as the necessar}^ being who is the 
ground of the content. Thus we have ^n absolute being 
whose perfection corresponds to that of the world. But in 
the world there is no absolute perfection ; we have therefore 
cnl}' a very perfect being ; to get the most perfect, we must 
revert again to the ontological proof. Thus the teleological 
proof rests upon the cosmological, while this in turn has its 
basis in the ontological, and from this circle the metaphj'sical 
modes of proof cannot escape. 

From these considerations, it would follow that the ideal 
of a supreme being is nothing other than a regulative princi- 
ple of the reason, b}' which it looks upon all connection in 
the world as if it sprang from an all-sufficient and necessarj' 
cause ; in order that, in explaining this connection, it may 
establish thereon the rule of a sj^stematic and necessary unity, 
it being also true that in this process the reason through a 
transcendental subreption cannot a^'oid representing to itself 
this formal principle as constitutive, and this unity as an 
absolute creative intelligence. But in truth this supreme 
being remains for the simpl}' speculative use of the reason, 
a mere though faultless ideal, a conception which is the siun- 
mit and the crown of human knowledge, whose objective 
realit}', though it cannot be proved with apodictic certainty, 
can just as little be disproved. 



KANT. 289 

With this critique of the ideas of the reason there is still 
another question. If these ideas have no objective signifi- 
cance, why are the}' found within us? Since the}' are neces- 
sar}^, they will doubtless have some good purpose to subserve. 
What this purpose is, has already been indicated in speaking 
of the theological idea. Though not constitutive, 3'et are 
they regulative principles. We cannot better order the fac- 
ulties of our soul, than by acting " as «/" there were a soul. 
The cosmological idea leads us to consider the world " as if" 
the series of causes were infinite, without, however, exclud- 
ing an intelligent cause. The theological idea enables us to 
look upon the world in all its complexit}^ as a regulated 
unit}'. Thus, while these ideas of the reason are not con- 
stitutive principles, by means of which oiu" knowledge could 
be widened beyond experience, they are regulative principles, 
by means of which our experience may be ordered, and 
brought under certain h}Tpothetical unities. These three ideas, 
therefore, the psychological, the cosmological, and the theo- 
logical, do not form an organon for the discovery of truth, 
but only a canon for the simplification and systematizing of 
our experiences. 

Besides their regulative significance, these ideas of the 
reason have also a practical importance. There is a suffi- 
cient certainty, not objective, but subjective, which is espe- 
cially of a practical natm-e, and is called belief or confidence. 
If the freedom of the will, the immortality of the soul, and 
the existence of a God, are three cardinal principles, which, 
though not in any way necessary to cognition, are yet pressed 
continually upon us by the reason, they must certainly find 
their peculiar significance in the practical sphere, in connec- 
tion with moral conviction. This conviction is not logical, 
but moral certainty. Since it rests wholly upon subjective 
grounds, upon the moral character, I cannot say : it is mor- 
ally certain that there is a God, but only : I am morally cer- 
tain, etc. That is, the belief in a God and in another world 
is so interwoven with my moral character, that I am in just 
13 



290 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

as much danger of losing this character as of being deprived 
of this behef. We are thus brought to the standpoint of the 
Practical Reason. 

II. Critique of the Practical Reason. — With the Cri- 
tique of the Practical Reason, we enter a wholly different 
world, where the reason richly recovers that of which it was 
deprived in the theoretical province. The essential problem 
of the Critique of the Practical Reason is ahnost diametrically 
o]3posed to that of the critique of the theoretical reason. 
The object of investigation in the critique of the speculative 
reason, was, — whether the pure reason can know objects 
a priori; in the practical reason it is, — how can the pure 
reason determine a priori the will in respect of objects. 
The critique of the speculative reason inquired after the cog- 
nizableness of objects a priori : the practical reason has noth- 
ing to do with the cognizableness of objects, but only with 
those questions which relate to the grounds of the determina- 
tion of the wiU (motives), and every thing which can be 
known in that connection. Hence, in the latter critique, we 
have an order directly the reverse of that which we find in 
the former. As the original determinations of our theoretical 
knowledge are intuitions, so the original determinations of 
our will are principles and conceptions. The critique of the 
practical reason must, therefore, start from moral principles, 
and onl}^ after these are firmly fixed, may we inquire con- 
cerning the relation in which the practical reason stands to 
the sense. 

The results of the two critiques, also, are mutually op- 
posed. If in the theoretical sphere the ideas of reason 
remained essentially negative, because the reason in seeking 
to attain to the thing-in-itself became transcendent, in the 
practical sphere the opposite is the case. In the practical 
sphere the ideas of reason demonstrate thek certainty in a 
wholly immediate and immanent wa}^, without once over- 
stepping the bounds of self-consciousness and inner expe- 
rience. In this sphere is considered the relation of reason. 



KANT, 291 

not to external things, but to something internal, to the will, 
and it is demonstrated that the reason can determine the wiU 
pm'ely from itself ; from which fact the ideas of fi'eedom and 
immortahtj obtain that certainty which the theoretical reason 
was unable to give them. 

That there is a determination of the will thi'ongh pm-e 
reason, or that the reason has practical reaht}', is not im- 
mediately certain, since human actions appear to proceed 
primaril}^ from the sensuous motives of pleasure and pain, 
inchnation or affection. The critique of practical reason must 
therefore inquire, whether these determinations of the will 
are the only ones, or whether there is yet a higher source of 
motives in which not sense but reason is the lawgiver, so that 
under its influence the will follows not incentives from with- 
out, but obeys, with absolute freedom, a higher practical 
principle of the reason. The exposition of these facts and 
principles is given in the analytic of the practical reason ; 
while on the other hand it belongs to the dialectic of practical 
reason to consider and solve the antinomies which arise from 
the relation of the legislation of pure reason to the empirical 
determination of the will through sensuous motives. 

1. The Axalytic. — The realit}^ of a higher faculty of 
motives within us is made certain by the fact of the moral 
laiu, which is nothing else than the law which reason of itself 
imposes upon the wiU. The moral law within us stands 
pre-eminent above all lower impulses, and with an inward 
iiTesistible necessity bids us foUow it absolutely and uncon- 
ditionally in utter independence of every sensuous motive. 
AU other practical laws relate solely to the empirical ends 
of pleasure and pain ; the moral law, however, has no refer- 
ence to these, and demands that we pay no regard to them. 
The moral law is not a hj-pothetical imperative which promul- 
gates mere rules of expediency, for the attainment of empi- 
rical ends ; but a categorical imperative, a universal law vaUd 
for every rationally dh'ected will. It can therefore originate 
only in the reason and not in any lower impulses or individual 



292 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

desires ; it can moreover originate only in pure reason and 
not in reason as empirically conditioned ; it mnst be a com- 
mandment of the antonomous, one, and universal reason. 
In the moral law, therefore, reason demonstrates itself as 
practical ; in it reason attains immediate reality ; and through 
it, it is proved that the pure reason is no mere idea but a 
force actually determining volition and action. Moreover, 
through this law is determined the complete certaint}^ and 
truth of another idea, — the idea of freedom. The moral law 
saj's, " Thou oughtest, therefore thou canst," and thus assures 
us of our freedom ; indeed it is in its essence nothing but the 
wdll freed from all sensuous content of desire, which thus con- 
stitutes for us the supreme law of volition and action. — But 
here the further question arises, what is it that the reason 
categoricall}^ enjoins ? In order to answer this we must first 
consider the empirical will, the natural side of man. 

The nature of an empirical will consists in this, that in it 
volition is directed upon an object to which the subject is 
driven by a feeling of pleasure to be derived from it ; and this 
feeling, again, is rooted in the nature of the subject, in its 
susceptibility for this or that, in its natural wants, etc. 
Under this empirical volition belongs all striving for a defi- 
nite object, or all material volition ; for nothing can be an 
object of subjective volition except in so far as a suscepti- 
bility exists in the subject by virtue of which the object is not 
indifferent to it, but pleasing. All material motives fall un- 
der the principle of agreeableness or happiness, or, subject- 
ively, under that of self-love. The will in so far as it follows 
these motives is not autonomic but heteronomic, limited, that 
is, through its dependence upon natural empirical ends. From 
this it follows that a law of reason which is to be uncondi- 
tionally l)indiiig upon all rational beings must be absolutely 
distinct from all material principles, that is, must contain 
nothing material. INIaterial motiv(^s are b}^ nature empirical, 
accidental, variable. For men are not at one as regards 
pleasure and pain, but what is disagreeable to one may appear 



KANT. 



293 



pleasing to another ; and even if the}' did agree in this respect 
the agreement would be purety accidental. Consequently, 
these material motives can never act the part of laws binding 
upon every being, but each subject may select for himself a 
different object as a motive. Such rules of action Kant calls 
maxims of the will. He also censures those moralists who 
set up such maxims as universal principles of morahtj-. 

Nevertheless, these maxims, though not the highest prin- 
ciples of morality, are 3'et necessary to the autonomy of the 
will, because they alone furnish it a definite content. It is 
only by uniting the two sides, that we gain the true principle 
of moralit3\ To this end the maxims must be freed from 
their Umitation, and widened to the form of universal laws 
of the reason. Only those maxims should be chosen as 
motives of action which are capable of becoming universal 
laws of the reason. The highest principle of morality will 
therefore be this : act so that the maxim of thy wiU can at 
the same time be valid as a principle of universal legislation ; 
I.e., act so that no contradiction shall arise in the attempt to 
conceive the maxim of thy acting as a law universally obe3'ed. 
By this formal moral principle all material moral principles 
which can only be of a heteronomic nature are excluded ; in 
it there is a law which elevates the will above all lower incen- 
tives, a law which reduces all wills to unanimit}-, a law which 
is the one true law of reason itself since it is valid for all 
rational beings. 

The question next arises — what impels the will to act con- 
formably to this highest moral law ? Kant answers : the 
moral law itself, apprehended and revered, must be the onl}^ 
moving spring of the human will. If an act which in itself 
might be conformable to the moral law, be done only through 
some impulse to happiness arising simply from an inclination 
of the sense, if it be not done purely for the sake of the law 
itself, then have we simply legality and not morality. That 
which is included in every inclination of the sense is self-love 
and self-conceit, and of these the former is restricted by the 



294 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

moral law, and the latter wholly destroyed. But that which 
strikes down our self-conceit and humbles us must appear to 
us in the highest degree worthy of esteem. This is the effect 
of the moral law. Consequently the positive feeling which 
we shall cherish toward the moral law will be reverence. 
This reverence, though a feeling, is neither sensuous nor 
pathological, for it stands opposed to these ; but is rather an 
intellectual feeling, since it arises from the notion of the prac- 
tical law of the reason. On the one side as subordination to 
law, reverence involves pain ; on the other side, since the 
coercion can only be exercised through the reason itself, it 
involves pleasure. Reverence is the only sentiment befitting 
man in reference to the moral law. Man, as creature of 
sense, cannot rest on any inner inclination to the moral law, 
for he has ever inclinations within him which resist the law ; 
love to the law can only be considered as something ideal. — 
Thus the moral purism of Kant, or his effort to separate every 
impulse of the sense from the motives to action, merges into 
rigorism, or the gloomy view that duty can never be done 
except with reluctance. A similar exaggeration belongs to 
the well-known epigram of Schiller, who answers the follow- 
ing scruple of conscience — 

The friends whom I love I gladly would serve, 

But to this inclination incites me ; 
And so I am forced from virtue to swerve 

Since my act, through affection, delights me — 

with the following decision : — 

The friends whom thou lov'st, thou must first seek to scorn, 

For to no other way can I guide thee : 
'Tis alone with disgust thou canst rightly perform 

The acts to which duty would lead thee. 

(2) Th£ Dialectic. — The pure reason has always its dia- 
lectic, since it belongs to the nature of the reason to demand 
the unconditioned for the given conditioned. Hence also the ^ 



KANT. 



295 



practical reason seeks an unconditioned highest good for that 
conditioned good after wliich man strives. What is this 
highest good? If we understand by the highest good the 
fundamental condition of all other goods, then it is vktue. 
But virtue is not the perfect good, since finite rational beings 
as sensitive stand in need also of happiness. Hence the 
highest good is only perfect when the highest happiness is 
joined to the highest virtue. The question now arises : what 
is the relation of these two elements of the highest good to 
each other? Are they analytically or synthetically united? 
The former would be affirmed by most of the ancients, es- 
pecially by the Greek moral philosophers. We might allow 
with the Stoics, that happiness is contained as an accidental 
element in virtue, or, with the Epicureans, that virtue is con- 
tained as an accidental element in happiness. The Stoics 
said : to be conscious of one's virtue is happiness ; the Epi- 
cureans said : to be conscious of the maxims leading one to 
happiness is virtue. But, says Kant, an anal}i:ic connection 
between these two conceptions is not possible, since they are 
wholly difierent in kind. Consequently there can be between 
them only a synthetic unity, and this unity more closely 
scanned is seen to be a causal one, so that the one element 
is cause, and the other effect. Such a relation must be 
regarded as its highest good b}' the practical reason, whose 
thesis must therefore be : virtue and happiness must be bound 
together in a correspondent degree as cause and effect. But 
this thesis is contradicted by the actual fact. Neither of the 
two is the direct cause of the other. Neither is the striving 
after happiness a moving spring to virtue, nor is Adrtue the 
efficient cause of happiness. Hence the antithesis : virtue 
and happiness do not necessarily correspond, and are not 
universally connected as cause and effect. The critical solu- 
tion of this antinomy Kant finds in the distinction between 
the sensible and the intelligible world. In the world of 
sense, virtue and happiness do not, it is true, correspond; 
but the reason as noumenon is also a citizen of a supersen- 



296 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

sible world, where the couuter-strife between vktiie and hap- 
piness has no place. In this supersensible world vu'tne is 
always adequate to happiness, and when man passes over 
into this he may look for the actuahzation of the highest 
good. But the highest good has, as already remarked, two 
elements, (1) highest vulue, (2) highest happiness. The 
necessaiy realization of the first of these elements postulates 
the immortality of the soul, and the second, the existence of 
God. 

(a) To the highest good belongs in the fii'st place perfect 
virtue or holiness. But no creature of sense can be holy: 
reason limited b}' sense can only approximate to holiness as 
an ideal in an endless progression. But such an endless 
progress is only possible in an endless continuance of per- 
sonal existence. If, therefore, the highest good is ever to be 
actualized, the immortality of the soul must be presupposed. 

(6) To the highest good belongs, in the second place, 
l^erfect happiness. Happiness is that condition of a rational 
creatm-e in the world, in which ever}- thing goes according 
to his desu'e and wiU. This can only occur when all nature 
is in accord with his purposes. But this is not the case ; as 
acting beings we are not causes of natiure, and there is not 
the slightest ground in the moral law for connecting moralit}^ 
and happiness. Notwithstanding this, we ougJit to endeavor 
to secure the highest good. It must therefore be possible. 
There is thus postulated the necessary connection of these 
two elements, i.e., the existence of a cause of nature distinct 
from natm-e, and which contains the ground of this connec- 
tion. There must be a being as the common cause of the 
natural and moral world, a being who knows our characters, 
an intelligence, who, according to this intelligence imparts to 
us happiness. Such a being is God. 

Thus from the practical reason there issue the ideas of im- 
mortaht}- and of God, as we have already seen to be the case 
Avith the idea of freedom. The reality of the idea of freedom 
is derived from the possibility of a moral law ; that of the idea 



KANT. 297 

of immortality is borrowed from the possibilit}' of a perfect 
%drtue ; that of the idea of a God folloTTS from the necessary 
demand for a perfect happiness. These thi^ee ideas, therefore, 
which the sjpeciilative reason has treated as problems that 
could not be solved, gain a finn basis in the province of the 
practical reason. Still the}' are not even now theoretical dog- 
mas, but as Kant calls them practical postulates, necessar}' 
premises of moral action. My theoretical knowledge is not 
enlarged by them : I onl}^ know now that there are objects 
corresponding to these ideas, but of these objects I can know 
no more. Of God, for instance, we possess and know no 
more than this very conception ; and if we should attempt to 
estabhsh the theory of the supersensible grounded upon such 
categories, this would be to make theology like a magic lan- 
tern, with its phantasma^orical representations. Yet has the 
practical reason acquired for us a certainty respecting the 
objective reality of these ideas, which the theoretical reason 
had been obliged to leave undecided, and in this respect the 
practical reason has the primacy. This relative position of 
the two faculties of knowledge is wisely adapted to the nature 
and destin}' of men. Since the ideas of God and immortality' 
are theoretically obscure to us, they do not defile om* moral 
motives by fear and hope, but leave us free space to act 
through reverence for the moral law. 

Thus far Kant's Critique of the practical Reason. In con- 
nection with this we may here mention his ^dews of religion 
as they appear in his treatise upon ' ' Religion icithin the 
Bounds of Pure Beason.'' The fundamental idea of this 
treatise is the reduction of religion to moralit}'. Between 
morality and rehgion there ma}' be the twofold relation, that 
either morality is founded upon religion, or else rehgion upon 
morahty. If the first relation were real, it would give us 
fear and hope as principles of moral action ; but this cannot 
be ; there remains, therefore, only the second. Morality leads 
necessarily to religion, because the highest good is a neces- 
sary ideal of the reason, and this can only be realized thi'ough 



298 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

a God ; but in no way ma}' religion first incite us to virtue, 
for tlie idea of God ma}' never become a moral motive. Re- 
ligion, according to Kant, is the recognition of all our duties 
as divine commands. It is revealed religion when I must 
fii'st know that something is a divine command, in order 
to know that it is my duty : it is natural religion when I 
must first know that something is my duty, in order to 
know that it is a divine command. The Church is an ethical 
community, which has for its end the fulfilment and the most 
perfect exhibition of moral commands, — a union of those 
who with united energies purpose to resist evil and advance 
morality. The Church, in so far as it is no object of a possi- 
ble experience, is called the invisible Church, which, as such, 
is merely the idea of the union of all the righteous under the 
divine moral government of the world. The visible Church, on 
the other hand, is that which represents the kingdom of God 
upon earth, so far as this can be attained through men. The 
requisites, and hence also the characteristics of the true visible 
Church (which are divided according to the table of the cate- 
gories since this Church is given in experience) are the fol- 
lowing : (a) In respect of quantity the Church must be total 
or universal; and though it may be divided in accidental 
opinions, yet must it be instituted upon such principles as 
will necessarily lead to a universal union in one single church. 
(5) The quality of the true visible Church is purity^ as a 
union under no other than moral motives, since it is at the 
same time purified from the stupidness of superstition and 
the madness of fanaticism, (c) The relation of the members 
of the Church to each other rests upon the principle of free- 
dom. The Church is, therefore, a free state^ neither a hie- 
rarchy nor a democracy, but a voluntary, universal, and en- 
during spiritual union. (cZ) In respect of modality the Church 
demands that its constitution should be unchangeable. The 
laws tlicmsclvcs may not change, though one may resei-ve to 
liimself the privilege of changing some accidental arrange- 
ments which relate simply to the administration. — That 



KAXT. 299 

alone which can estabhsh a universal Church is the moral 
faith of the reason, for this alone can be shared by the con- 
victions of ever}' man. But, because of the peculiar weakness 
of human nature, we can never reckon enough on this pui'e 
faith to build a Church on it alone, for men are not easih' 
convinced that the striving after virtue and an irreproachable 
life is every thing which God demands : they alwa3'S su^^pose 
that they must offer to God a special service prescribed by 
tradition, which only amounts to this — that he is seiwed. 

To establish a Chm'ch, we must therefore have a statutorj^ 
faith historically gi'ounded upon facts. This is the so-called 
faith of the Chm'ch. In every Chm'ch there are therefore two 
elements — the purel}' moral, or the faith of reason, and the 
historico-statutor}', or the faith of the Church. It depends 
now upon the relation of these two elements whether a Church 
shall have any worth or not. The statutory element should 
ever be onl}' the vehicle of the moral element. Just so soon 
as this element becomes in itself an independent end, claim- 
ing an independent validitj^, will the Church become corrupt 
and uTational, and whenever the Church passes over to the 
pure faith of reason, it approximates to the kingdom of God. 
Upon this principle we may distinguish the true from the 
spiurious ser\dce of the kingdom of God, religion from priest- 
craft. A dogma has worth alone in so far as it has a moral 
content. The apostle Paul himself would scarcely have given 
credit to the dicta of the creed of the Chmxh without this 
moral faith. From the doctrine of the Trinit}', e.^., taken 
literally, nothing actually practical can be derived. Whether 
we have to reverence in the Godhead three persons or ten 
makes no difference, if in both cases we have the same rules 
for our conduct of life. The Bible also, with its interpre- 
tation, must bQ considered in a moral point of view. The 
records of revelation must be interpreted in a sense which will 
harmonize with the universal rules of the religion of reason. 
Reason is in religious things the highest interpreter of the 
Bible. This interpretation in reference to some texts may 



300 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

seem forced, 3'et it must be preferred to any such literal in- 
terpretation as T^'ould contain nothing for morality, or per- 
haps go against everj^ moral feeling. That such a moral 
signification ma}' alwa3'S be found without ever entu'ely repu- 
diating the literal sense, results from the fact that the foun- 
dation for an ethical religion lay originally in the human 
reason. We need onl}' to divest the representations of the 
Bible of their mythical dress (an attempt which Kant has 
himself made, by an ethical interpretation of some of the 
weightiest doctrines) , in order to attain for them a rational 
meaning which shall be universally valid. The historical ele- 
ment of the sacred books is in itself of no account. The 
maturer the reason becomes, the more it can hold fast for 
itself the moral sense, so much the more unnecessar}^ will be 
the statutor}^ institutions of. the faith of the Chm'ch. The 
transition from the creed of the Church to the pure faith of 
reason is the approximation to the kingdom of God, to which, 
however, we can onl}' approach nearer and nearer in an infinite 
progress. The actual realization of the kingdom of God is 
the end of the Avorld, the termination of histor3\ 

III. Critique of the Faculty of Judgment. — The con- 
ception of this science Kant gives in the following manner. 
The two faculties of the human mind hitherto considered 
were the faculty- of knowledge and that of desire. It was 
proved in the Critique of Pure Reason^ that the understand- 
ing alone of the faculties of the mind possesses a priori 
constitutive principles of knowledge ; while the fact that in 
reference to the faculty of desire the reason alone possesses 
a priori constitutive principles of action is shown in the 
Critique of Practical Reason. AVhether now the faculty of 
judgment., as the link between understanding and reason, 
can take its object — the feeling of pleasure and pain as the 
mean between cognition and desire — and furnish it a priori 
with principles which sliall be constitutive and not simply 
regulative, is the problem with which the Critique of Judg- 
ment occupies itself. 



KANT. 801 

The faculty of judgment is by vii-tue of its peculiar func- 
tion, the mean between the understanding as the faculty 
of conceptions, and the reason as the faculty of principles. 
The speculative reason has taught us to consider the world 
as wholly subject to natural laws ; the practical reason had 
inferred for us a moral world, in which every thing is deter- 
mined through freedom. There was thus a gulf between the 
kingdom of nature and that of freedom, which could not be 
passed unless the faculty of judgment should furnish a con- 
ception which should unite the two sides. That it is entitled 
to do this lies in the very conception of the faculty- of judg- 
ment. Since it is the faculty of conceiving the particular as 
contained under the universal, it thus refers the empuical 
manifoldness of nature to a supersensible, transcendental 
principle, which embraces in itself the ground for the unity 
of the manifold. The object of the faculty of judgment is, 
therefore, the conception of design in nature ; for design is 
nothing but the supersensuous unity which contains the 
ground for the actuality of an object. And since all design 
and everj^ actualization of an end is connected with pleasure, 
we maj' farther explain the faculty of judgment b}' saying, 
that it contains the laws for the feehng of pleasure and 
pain. 

Conformity to design in natm^e can be represented either 
subjectively or objectiveh'. In the first case I perceive 
pleasure and pain, immediately thi'ough the representation 
of an object, before I have formed a conception of it ; my 
delight, in this instance, can onl}' be refeiTed to a designed 
harmon}' of relation between the form of an object, and my 
faculty of beholding. The faculty of judgment viewed thus 
subjectivel}", is called the cesthetic faculty. In the second 
case, I form for myself at the outset a conception of the 
object, and then judge whether the form of the object corre- 
sponds to this conception. In order to find a flower that is 
beautiful to my sense of vision, I do not need to have a con- 
ception of the flower; but, if I would see design in the 



302 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

flower, then a conception is necessaiy. The faculty of judg- 
ment, viewed as capacity to judge of objective design, is 
called the tdeological faculty. 

1. Critique op the Esthetic Faculty of Judgment. 
(1) Analytic. — The analytic of the aesthetic faculty of judg- 
ment is divided into two parts, the anal3^tic of the beautiful^ 
and the anal3^tic of the sublime. 

In order to discover what is required in order to judge an 
object to be beautiful, we must anatyze the judgments of 
taste, as the faculty for deciding upon the beautiful, (a) 
In respect of quality, the beautiful is the object of a pure, 
uninterested satisfaction. This disinterestness enables us to 
distinguish between the satisfaction in the beautiful, and the 
satisfaction in the agreeable and the good. In the agreeable 
and the good I am interested ; my satisfaction in the agreea- 
ble is connected with a sensation of desire ; my satisfaction 
in the good is, at the same- time, a motive for my will to 
actualize it. My satisfaction in the beautiful alone is with- 
out interest, {b) In respect of quantity, the beautiful is 
that which universall}' satisfies. In respect of the agreeable, 
ever}^ one decides that his satisfaction in it is only a personal 
one ; but when any one affirms of a picture, that it is beauti- 
ful, he expects that not onl^^ he, but every one else, will also 
find it so. Nevertheless, these judgments of taste do not 
arise from conceptions ; their universal validity is therefore 
purely subjective. I do not judge that "all the objects of a 
species are beautiful, but only that a certain sj^ecific object 
will appear beautiful to every beholder. All the judgments 
of taste are individual judgments, (c) In respect of rela- 
tion, that is beautiful in which we find the form of design, 
without representing to ourselves an}" specific end designed, 
(d) In respect of modality, that is beautiful which is recog- 
nized without a conception, as the object of a necessary sat- 
isfaction. Of ever}^ representation, it is at least possible, 
that it ma}' awaken pleasure. The representation of the 
agreeable actually awakens pleasure. The representation of 



KAKT. 803 

the beautiful, on the other hand, awakens pleasure necessa- 
ril}'. The necessity which is conceived in an aesthetic judg- 
ment, is a necessit}'- for the agreement of all in a judgment, 
which can be viewed as -an example of a universal rule, 
though the rule itself cannot be stated. The subjective prin- 
ciple which lies at the basis of the judgment of taste, is 
therefore a common sense, which determines what is pleasing, 
and what displeasing, only through feeling, and not through 
thought. 

The svMime is that which is absolutely, or bej^ond all com- 
parison, great, compared with which every thing else is small. 
But now in nature there is nothing than which there is not 
something greater. The absolutely great is only the infinite, 
and the infinite is only to be met with in ourselves, as idea. 
The subhme, therefore, is not properly found in nature, but 
is only carried over to nature from our own minds. We call 
that sublune in nature which awakens within us the idea of 
the infinite. As in the beautiful there is prominent reference 
to quality, so, in the sublime, the most important element 
of all is quantit}^ ; and this quantity is either magnitude of 
extension (the mathematically sublime), or magnitude of 
power (the dynamically^ sublime) . In the sublime there is a 
greater satisfaction in the formless than in form. The sub- 
lime excites a vigorous movement of the heart, and awakens 
pleasure only through pain, i.e., through the feeling that the 
energies of life are for the moment restrained. The satisfac- 
tion in the sublime is hence not so much a positive pleasure, 
but rather an amazement and awe, which ma}^ be called a 
negative pleasure. The elements for an aesthetic judgment 
of the sublime are the same as in the feeling of the beautiful, 
(a) In respect of quantit}'-, that is sublime which is absolutely 
great, in comparison with which every thing else is small. 
The aesthetic estimate of greatness does not lie, however, in 
enumeration, but in the simple intuition of the subject. The 
magnitude of an object, which the imagination attempts in 
vain to comprehend, implies a supersensible substratum, 



304 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

which is great bej^ond all the measures of the sense, and to 
which the feeling of the sublime is property related. It is 
not the object itself, as for example the surging sea, which 
is sublime, but rather the emotion in the mind of him who 
contemplates it. {b) In respect of quality, the sublime does 
not awaken pure pleasure, like the beautiful, but first pain, 
and through this, pleasure. The feeling of the insufficiency 
of our imagination, in the aesthetic estimate of magnitude, 
gives rise to pain ; but, on the other side, the consciousness 
of our independent reason in its superiority to the imagina- 
tion, awakens pleasure. In this respect, therefore, that is 
sublime which immediately pleases us, through its opposition 
to the interest of the sense, (c) In respect of relation, the 
sublime causes nature to appear as a power, indeed, but as 
one in reference to which we have the consciousness of supe- 
riorit}^ (d) In respect of modality, the judgments concern- 
ing the sublime are as necessarily valid, as those in reference 
to the beautiful ; only with this difference, that our judgment 
of the sublime finds an entrance to some minds, with greater 
difficulty than our judgment of the beautiful, since in order to 
perceive the sublime, culture, and developed moral ideas, are 
necessar}^ 

(2) Dialectic. — A dialectic of the aesthetic facult}' of judg- 
ment, lilie every dialectic, is only possible where we can meet 
with judgments which la}" claim to universality a priori. For 
dialectic consists in the opposition of such judgments. The 
antinom}' of the principles of taste rests upon the two oppo- 
site elements of the judgment of taste, viz., that it is purely 
subjective, and at the same time, la3's claim to universal 
validity. Hence, the two commonplace sajings : "there is 
no disputing about taste," and " there is a contest of tastes." 
From these we have the following antinom3^ (a) Thesis : 
the judgment of taste cannot be grounded on conception, else 
miglit we dispute it. {h) Antithesis : the judgment of taste 
must be grounded on conception, else, notwithstanding its 
diversity, there could be no contest respecting it. — This 



KANT. 305 

antinomy, sa3's Kant, is, however, onl}' an apparent one, 
and disappears as soon as the two propositions are more 
accurately apprehended. The thesis should be : the judg- 
ment of taste is not grounded upon a definite conception, and 
is not strictly demonstrable ; the antithesis should be : this 
judgment is grounded upon a conception, though an indefi- 
nite one, viz., upon the conception of a supersensible sub- 
stratum for the phenomenal. Thus apprehended, there is no 
longer any contradiction between the two propositions. 

In the conclusion of the investigation of the aesthetic faculty 
of judgment, we can now answer the question, whether the 
adaptation of things to our faculty of judgment (their beauty 
and sublimit}'), lies in the things themselves, or in us? 
Esthetic realism claims that the supreme cause of nature 
designed to produce things which should affect our imagina- 
tion, as beautiful and sublime ; and the organic forms of 
nature strongly support this yiew. But on the other hand, 
nature exhibits even in her merely mechanical forms, such a 
tendency to the beautiful, that we might believe that she 
could produce also the most beautiful organic forms through 
mechanism alone ; and that thus the design would lie not in 
nature, but in om- mode of apprehension. This is the stand- 
point of idealism, upon which it becomes exphcable how we 
can decide a priori in reference to beauty and sublimit3\ 
But the highest view of the sesthetical, is its use as a symbol 
of moral good. Thus Kant makes the theory of taste, lil^e 
religion, to be a corollary of ethics. 

2. CRrriQUE of the Teleological Faculty of Judgsient. 
— In the foregoing, we have considered the subjective sesthet- 
ical conformit}^ to design in natural objects. But natm-al ob- 
jects stand to one another also in the relation of adaptation. 
This objective conformity to design is the object of the teleo- 
logical faculty of judgment. 

(1) Analytic of the Teleological Faculty of Judgment. — 
The anal}iic has to determine the kinds of objective adapta- 
tion. Objective, material conformity to design, is of two 



306 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

kinds, external and internal. External conformity to de- 
sign is onl}' relative, since it simph' indicates a usefulness of 
one tiling for another. Sand, for instance, which borders 
the sea shore, is of use in bearing pine forests. In order that 
animals can live upon the earth, the earth must produce nour- 
ishment for them, etc. These examples of external design 
show that here the design never belongs to the means in it- 
self, but only accidental!}'. We should never get a concep- 
tion of the sand b}* sapng that it is a means for pine forests ; 
it is conceivable for itself, without an}' reference to the con- 
ception of design. The earth does not produce nourishment, 
because it is necessar}' that men should dwell upon it. In 
brief, this external or relative conformit}' to design may be 
conceived as resulting from the mechanism of nature alone. 
Not so the inner adaptations, which show themselves promi- 
nentl}' in the organic products of natm'e. In an organism, 
ever}' one of its parts is end, and every one, means or instru- 
ment. In the process of generation, the natural product 
produces itself as species, in growth it appears as individual, 
and in the process of complete formation, every pai-t of the 
individual develops itself. This natural organization cannot 
be explained from mechanical causes, but only through final 
causes, or teleologically. 

(2) Dialectic. — The dialectic of the teleological faculty of 
judgment, has to adjust this opposition between this mechan- 
ism of nature and teleology. On the one side we have the 
thesis : the production of all material things, according to sim- 
ple mechanical laws must be judged possible. On the other 
side we have the antithesis : certain products of material na- 
ture cannot be judged as possible, according to simple me- 
chanical laws, but demand the conception of design for their 
explanation. If these two maxims are posited as constitutive 
(objective) principles for the possibility of the objects them- 
selves, then do they contradict each other, but as simply reg- 
ulative (su})jcctive) principles for the investigation of nature, 
they arc not contradictor3\ Earlier systems treated the con- 



KANT. 307 

ception of design in nature dogmaticall}', and either affirmed or 
denied its essential existence in nature. But we, convinced 
that teleology is only a regulative principle, have nothing to 
do with the question whether an inner design belongs essen- 
tiall}' to natui'e or not, but we onl}' affirm that om- facult}' of 
judgment must look upon nature as designed. TTe emdsage 
the conception of design in natm-e, but leave it whoU}^ unde- 
cided whether to another understanding, which does not think 
discursively like om^s, nature may not be understood, without 
any necessity" for inti'oducing this conception of design. Our 
understanding thinks disciu'sively : it proceeds from the parts, 
and comprehends the whole as the product of its parts ; it 
cannot, therefore, conceive the organic products of natm^e, 
in which the whole is the ground and the prius of the parts, 
except from the point of view of the conception of design. 
K there were, on the other hand, an intuitive understanding, 
which could know the particular and the parts as co-deter- 
mined in the universal and the whole ; such an understanding 
might conceive the whole of nature under one principle, and 
would not need the conception of design. 

If Kant had thoroughl}' carried out this conception of an 
intuitive understanding as well as the conception of an im- 
manent design in nature, he would have overcome, in prin- 
ciple, the standpoint of subjective idealism, which he made 
numerous attempts, in his critique of the faculty of judgment, 
to break through ; but these ideas he only propounded, and 
left them to be positively carried out by his successors. 



308 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

SECTION XXXIX. 

TRANSITION TO THE POST-KANTIAN PHILOSOPHY. 

The Kantian philosophy soon gained in Germany an 
almost undisputed rule. The imposing boldness of its stand- 
point, tlie novelt}^ of its results, the applicability of its princi- 
ples, the moral severit}^ of its view of the world, and above 
all, the spmt of freedom and moral autonomy which ap- 
peared in it, and which was so du-ectty opposed to the efforts 
of that age, gained for it an assent as enthusiastic as it was 
extended. It aroused among the cultivated classes a wider 
interest and participation in philosophic pursuits, than had 
ever appeared in an equal degTce among au}' people. In a 
short time it had drawn to itself a very numerous school : 
there were soon few German universities in which it had not 
had its talented representatives, while in every department 
of science and literatm^e, especially in theology (it is the 
parent of theological rationalism), and in natm-al rights, as 
also in belles-lettres {Schiller), it began to exert its influ- 
ence. Yet most of the writers who appeared in the Kantian 
school, confined themselves to an exposition or popular appli- 
cation of the doctrine as Kant had stated it, and even the 
most talented and independent among the defenders and im- 
provers of the critical philosophy {e.g.^ReirJiold, 1758-1813 ; 
Schulze, Beck, Fries, Kriig, Bouterweck) , only attempted to 
give a firmer basis to the Kantian philosoph}^ as the^^ had 
received it, to obviate some of its wants and deficiencies, 
and to carrj' out the standpoint of transcendental idealism 
more purel}' and consistentl3\ Among those who carried out 
the Kantian philosoph}', only two men, Fichte and Ilerhart, 
can be named, who made b}^ their actual advance an epoch 
in philosophy' ; and among its opposers {e.g., Ilamann, Her- 
der), only one, Jaoobi, is of philosophic importance. These 



TRANSITION TO POST-KANTIAN PHILOSOPHY. 309 

thi'ee philosophers must therefore be fu'st considered. In 
order to a more accurate development of theii' principles, we 
preface a brief and general characterization of theu^ relation 
to the Kantian philosoph}-. 

1 . Dogmatism had been criticall}- annihilated b}' Kant : 
his Critique of pure Reason had for its result the theoretical 
indemonsti-ableness of the three ideas of the reason, God, 
freedom, and immortality. True, these ideas which, from 
the standpoint of theoretical knowledge, had been thi-ust 
out, Kant had inti'oduced again as ]postulates of the practical 
reason ; but as postulates, as only practical jDremises, they 
possess no theoretic certainty-, and remain exposed to doubt. 
In order to do away with this uncertainty, and this despair- 
ing of knowledge which had seemed to be the end of the 
Kantian philosophy, Jacohi^ a j'ounger cotemporary of Kant, 
placed himself upon the standpoint of philosophical faith in 
opposition to the standpoint of criticism. These highest ideas 
of the reason, the eternar and the divine, cannot indeed be 
reached and proved by means of demonsti'ation ; but it is 
the very natui'e of the divine to be indemonstrable and un- 
attainable for the understanding. For attaining with cer- 
taints' the highest, that which Kes bej'ond the understandmg, 
there is only one organ, viz., feeling. In feeling, therefore, 
in immediate knowledge, in faith, Jacobi thought he had 
found that certainty which Kant had sought in vain on the 
basis of discursive thinking. 

2. While Jacobi stood in an antithetic relation to the Kan- 
tian philosophy, FicJite appears as its immediate consequence. 
The Kantian duahsm, according to which the Ego, as theo- 
retic, is subjected to the external world, while as practical, it 
is its master, or, in other words, according to which the Ego 
stands related to the objective world, now receptively and 
again spontaneously, Fichte removed by emphasizing the 
primac}' of the i:>ractical reason. He allowed the reason to 
be exclusivel}' practical, as will alone, and spontaneity alone, 
and apprehended its theoretical and respective relation to the 



810 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

objective world as onlj' a circumscribed activity, as a limita- 
tion prescribed to itself by the reason. But for the reason, so 
far as it is practical, there is nothing objective except what 
itself produces. The will knows no being but only an ought. 
Hence the objective being of truth is universally denied, and 
the thing-in-itself which is essentially unknown must fall 
away of itself as an empty shadow. "All that is, is the 
Ego," is the principle of the Fichtian S3'stem, and represents 
at the same time subjective ideahsm in its consequence and 
completion. 

3. While the subjective idealism of Fichte was carried out 
in the objective idealism of Schelling, and the absolute ideal- 
ism of Hegel, there arose cotemporaneousty with these 
systems a third offshoot of the Kantian criticism, viz., the 
philosophy of Herhart. Its relation to the Kantian philos- 
ophy was rather that of subjective origination than of objec- 
tive historical connection. It has no relation to historic 
continuity, and holds an isolated *position in the history of 
philosoph}^ Its general basis is Kantian, in so far as it takes 
for its problem a critical investigation of the subjective ex- 
perience. We place it between Fichte and Schelling. 



SECTION XL. 

JACOBI. 

Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi was born at Diisseldorf in 
1743. His father destined him for a merchant. After he 
had studied in Geneva and become interested in philosoph}", 
he entered his father's mercantile establishment ; but after- 
wards abandoned this business, having been made chancellor 
of the exchequer and customs commissioner for Jiilich and 
Berg, and also privy councillor at Diisseldorf. In this citj^. 



JACOBI. 311 

or at his neighboring estate of Pempelfort, he spent a great 
part of his hfe devoted to philosoph}^ and his friends. In the 
3'ear 1804 he was called to the newly-formed Academy of 
Sciences in Munich. In 1807 he was chosen president of this 
institution, a post which he filled till his death in 1819. Ja- 
cobi had a rich intellect and an amiable character. Besides 
being a philosopher, he was also a poet and man of the world ; 
and hence we find in his j)hilosophizing an absence of strict 
logical arrangement and precise expression of thought. His 
writings are no sj'stematic whole, but are occasional treatises 
written " rhapsodical^ and in grasshopper gait," for the most 
part in the form of letters, dialogues, and romances. ''It 
was never my purpose," he ssijs himself, "to set up a sys- 
tem for the schools. M}' writings have sprung from my inner- 
most life, and were onl}' historicall}" consecutive. In a certain 
sense I did not make them voluntarily, but they were pro- 
duced under the influence of a higher and by me irresistible 
power." This want of an inner principle of classification and 
of a systematic arrangement, renders a development of Ja- 
cobi's philosophy not easj'. It may best be represented under 
the following three points of view: 1. Jacobi's polemic 
against mediate knowledge. 2. His principle of immediate 
knowledge. 3. His relation to the cotemporaneous philoso- 
ph}', especially to the Kantian criticism. 

1 . Spinoza was the negative starting-point of Jacobi's phi- 
losophizing. In his work "0?i the Doctrine of Spinoza^ in 
Letters to Moses Mendelssohn'' (1785), he directed public at- 
tention again to the almost wholly forgotten pliilosoph}^ of 
Spinoza. The correspondence originated thus : Jacobi made 
the discover}' that Lessing was a Spinozist, and announces 
this to Mendelssohn. The latter will not believe it, and 
thence grew the farther historical and philosophical examina- 
tion. The positive philosophic views which Jacobi expounds 
in this treatise can be reduced to the following tln-ee princi- 
ples : (1) Spinozism is fataUsm and atheism. (2) Every 
method of philosophic demonstration leads to fatalism and 



312 A HISTOllY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

atheism. (3) In order that we ma}' not fall into these, we 
must set a limit to demonstration, and recognize faith as the 
element of all human knowledge. 

(1) Spinozism is atheism, because, accordhig to it, the 
cause of the world is not a person — is not a being working 
for an end, and endowed with reason and will — and hence is 
no God. It is fatalism, for, according to it, the human will 
regards itself only falsely as free. 

(2) This atlieism and fatalism is, however, only the neces- 
sary consequence of all strictly demonstrative philosophizing. 
To conceive a thing, sa3's Jacobi, is to refer it to its proxi- 
mate cause ; it is to find a possible for an actual, the condi- 
tion for a conditioned, the mediation for an immediate. We 
conceive only that which we can explain from another. Hence 
our conceiving moves in a chain of conditioned conditions, 
and this connection forms the mechanism of nature, in whose 
investigation our understanding has its immeasurable field. 
However far we may carry conception and demonstration, we 
must hold, in reference to every object, to a still higher one 
which conditions it ; where this chain of the conditioned 
ceases, there do conception and demonstration also cease ; 
unless we give up demonstrating we can reach no infinite. 
If philosophy' determines to apprehend the infinite with the 
finite understanding, then must it cause the divine to become 
finite ; and here is where every preceding philosophy has 
been entangled ; and j^et it is obviousl}'' absurd to attempt to 
discoA^er the conditions of the unconditioned ; and make the 
absolutely necessary a possible, in order that we may be able 
to construe it. A God who could be proved is no God, for 
the grou d of proof is ever above that which is to be proved ; 
the latter derives its whole reality from the former. If the 
existence of God should be proved, then God would be 
derived from a ground which were before and above him. 
Hence the paradox of Jacobi ; it is for the interest of science 
that there be no God, no supernatural and no extra or supra- 
mundane being. Only upon the condition that nature alone 



jacObi. 313 

is, and is therefore independent and all in all, can science 
hope to gain its goal of perfection, and become, like its object 
itself, all in all. Hence the result which Jacobi derives from 
the ' ' Drama of the history of philosoph}' " is this : ' ' There 
is no other philosophy than that of Spinoza. He who con- 
siders all the works and acts of men to be the effect of natural 
mechanism, and who believes that intelligence is but an 
accompanying consciousness, which has only to act the part 
of a looker-on, cannot be contended with and cannot be 
helped ; he must be let alone. No philosophical conclusion 
can reach him, for what he denies cannot be philosophically 
proved, and what he proves cannot be jDhilosophically de- 
nied." Whence then is help to come? " The imderstanding, 
taken by itself, is materialistic and irrational ; it denies spirit 
and God. The reason taken by itself is idealistic, and has 
nothing to do with the understanding ; it denies nature and 
makes itself God." 

(3) Hence we must seek another way of knowing the 
supersensible, which is faith. Jacobi calls this flight from 
cognition through conception to faith, the salto mortale of 
the human reason. Every certainty through a conception 
demands another certaint}^, but in faith we are led to an 
immediate certainty which needs no ground nor proof, and 
which is in fact absolutely exclusive of all proof. Such a 
confidence which does not arise from arguments, is called 
faith. We know the sensible as well as the supersensible 
only through faith. All human knowledge springs from reve- 
lation and faith. 

These principles which Jacobi brought out in his letters 
concerning Spinoza, did not fail to arouse a univer£(-il oppo- 
sition in the German philosophical world. It was* charged 
upon him that he was an enemy of reason, a preacher of 
blind faith, a despiser of science and of philosoph}^, a fanatic 
and a papist. To rebut these attacks, and to justify" his 
standpoint, he wrote in 1787, a year and a half after the first 
appearance of the work already named, his dialogue entitled 
U 



314 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

" David Hume on Faith, or Idealism and Realism" in which 
he develops more extensively and definitely his principle of 
faith or immediate knowledge. 

2. Jacobi distinguished his faith at the outset from a blind 
belief in authority. A blind faith is one which supports it- 
self on the authority of another, instead of on the grounds 
of reason. But this is not the case with his faith, which 
rather rests upon the inner necessity felt by the subject itself. 
Still farther : his faith is not arbitrary imagination : we can 
imagine to ourselves every possible thing, but in order to 
regard a thing as actual, there must be an inexplicable neces- 
sit}^ of our feeling, for which we have no other name than 
faith. Jacobi was not consistent in his terminology, and 
hence did not always express himself alike in respect of the 
relation in which this faith stood to the different sides of the 
human faculty of knowledge. In his earlier terminology he 
placed faith (or as he also called it, the faculty of faith) , on 
the side of the sense or the receptivity as opposed to the 
understanding and the reason, taking these two terms as 
equivalent expressions for the finite and mediate knowledge 
of previous philosophy ; afterwards he followed Kant, and, 
distinguishing between the reason and the understanding, he 
called that reason which he had previously named sense and 
faith. According to him now, the faith or intuition of the 
reason is the organ for perceiving the supersensible. As 
such, it stands opposed to the understanding. There must 
be a higher faculty which can learn, in a way inconceivable 
to sense and the understanding, that which is true in and 
above phenomena. Over against the explaining understand- 
ing stands the reason, or the natural faith of the reason, 
which does not explain, but positively reveals and uncon- 
ditionally decides. As there is an intuition of the sense, so 
is there a rational intuition through the reason, and a demon- 
stration has no more validity in respect of the latter than in 
respect of the former. Jacobi justifies his use of the term, 
intuition of the reason, from the want of an}^ other suitable 



JACOBI. 815 

designation. Language has no other expression to indicate 
the way in which that, which is unattainable to the sense, 
becomes apprehended in the transcendental feeling. If any 
one affirms that he knows any thing, he may property be 
requked to state the origin of his knowledge, and in doing 
this, he must of necessity go back either to sensation or to 
feeling ; the latter stands above the former as high as the 
human species above the brute. So I affirm, then, without 
hesitation, says Jacobi, that my philosophy starts from pure 
objective feeling, and declares the authority of this to be 
supreme. The faculty of feeling is the highest in man, and 
that alone which specifically distinguishes him from the brute. 
This faculty is identical with reason ; or, reason may be said 
to find in it its single and only starting-point. 

Jacobi had the clearest consciousness of the oj)position in 
which he stood, with this principle of immediate knowledge, 
to previous philosophy. In his introduction to his complete 
works, he bsljs: ''There had arisen since the time of Aris- 
totle an increasing effort in philosophical schools, to subject 
immediate knowledge to mediate, to make that faculty of 
perception which is the original ground of every thing, de- 
pendent on the faculty of refiection, which is conditioned 
through abstraction ; to subordinate the archetj^e to the 
copy, the essence to the word, the reason to the understand- 
ing, and, in fact, to make the former wholly disappear in the 
latter. Nothing is allowed to be true which is not capable 
of a double demonstration, in the intuition and in the con- 
ception, in the thing and in its image or word ; the thing 
itself, it is said, must truly lie and actually be known only 
in the word." But every philosophy which admits only the 
reflecting reason, must lose itself at length in an utter igno- 
rance. Its end is nihilism. 

3. From what has been akeady said, the attitude of Jaco- 
bi's principle of faith, toward the Kantian philosophy, can, 
partly at least, be seen. Jacobi had explained himself in 
reference to this philosophy, partly in the above-named dia- 



316 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. , 

logue ''David IIu7ne" (especially in an appendix to this, in 
which he discussed the transcendental Idealism) , and partly 
in his essa}^ ' ' On the Attempt of Criticism to bring the Reason 
to the Understanding'' (1801). His relation to it may be 
reduced to the following three general points : 

(1) Jacobi does not agree with Kant's theory of sensuous 
knowledge. In opposition to this theory he defends the stand- 
point of empiricism, affirms the truthfulness of the sense-per- 
ception, and denies the apriority of space and time, for which 
Kant contends in order to prove that objects as well as their 
relations are simply determinations of our own self, and do 
not at all exist externallj' to us. For, however much it ma}^ 
be affirmed that there is something corresponding to our no- 
tions as then* cause, jQi does it remain concealed what this 
something is. According to Kant, the laws of our beholding 
and thinking are without objective validit}^, our knowledge 
has no objective significance. But it is wrong to claim that 
in the phenomena there is nothing revealed of the hidden 
truth which lies behind them. With such a claim, it were far 
better to give up completely the unknown thing-in-itself, and 
carry out to its results the consequent idealism. "Logi- 
cally, Kant is at fault, when he presupposes objects which 
make impressions on our soul. He is bound to teach the 
strictest idealism." 

(2) Yet Jacobi essentially agrees with Kant's critique of 
the understanding. Jacobi affirmed, as Kant had done, that 
the understanding is insufficient to know the supersensible, 
and that the highest ideas of the reason can be apprehended 
onty by faith. Jacobi places Kant's gi'eat merit in having 
cleared away the ideas, which were simpty the products of 
reflection and logical phantasms. "It is very easy for the 
understanding, when producing notions of notions from no- 
tions, and thus gradually mounting up to ideas, to imagine 
that, by virtue of these, which, though they carr}' it beyond 
the intuitions of the sense, are nothing but logical phantasms, 
it has not only the power to transcend the world of sense. 



JACOBI. 317 

and to gain by its flight a higher science independent of in- 
tuition, a science of the supersensible, but that this tran- 
scendence is its most peculiar function. Kant discovers 
and destroys this error and self-deception. Thus there is 
gained, at least, a clear place for a genuine rationalism. 
This is Kant's truly great achievement, his immortal merit. 
But the sound sense of our sage did not allow him to hide 
from himself that this clear place must be transformed into a 
gulf, which would swallow up in itself all knowledge of the 
true, unless a God should be found to prevent it. Here 
Kant's doctrine and mine meet." 

(3) But Jacobi does not fully agree with Kant, in wholty 
denying to the theoretical reason the capacit}^ for objective 
knowledge. He blames Kant for complaining that the human 
reason cannot theoretically prove the reality of its ideas. He 
affirms that Kant is thus still entangled in the delusion, that 
the only reason why these ideas cannot be proved, is found 
not in the nature of the ideas themselves, but in the deficient 
natm"e of our faculties. Kant therefore attempts to seek, in 
the practical application of reason, a kind of scientific proof; 
a roundabout way, which, to every profound investigator, 
must seem foU}^, since every proof is as impossible as it is 
unnecessary. 

Jacobi agreed better with Kant than with the post- Kantian 
philosophy. The pantheistic tendency of the latter was 
especially repulsive to him. "To Kant, that profound 
thinker and upright philosopher, the words God, freedom, 
immortality, and religion, signified the same as they have ever 
done to the sound human understanding ; he never uses them 
deceptivel3\ He caused ofience by irresistibly showing the 
insufficiency of all proofs of speculative philosophy for these 
ideas. That which was wanting in the theoretical proof, he 
supplied by the necessary postulates of a pure practical rea- 
son. With these, according to Kant's assurance, philosoph}^ 
was fully helped out of her difficulty, and the goal, which had 
been always missed, actually reached. But the first daughter 



318 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

of the critical philosophy (Fichte's system) makes the living 
and working moral order itself to be God, a God expressly- 
declared to be without consciousness and self-existence. 
These frank words, spoken publicly' and without restraint, 
roused some attention, but the excitement soon subsided. 
Presentl}' astonishment ceased whoU}', for the second daugh- 
ter of the critical philosoph}^ (Schelling's sj'stem) gave up 
enthely the distinction which the first had allowed to remain 
between natural and moral philosoph}', necessit}^ and freedom, 
and without an}^ further ado affinned that the only existence is 
nature, and that there is nothing above ; this second daughter 
is Spinozism transfigured a.nd reversed, an ideal materiahsm." 
This latter allusion to Schelling, connected as it was with 
other and harder thrusts in the same essa}^, called out from 
this philosopher the well-known answer : " Schelling's Memo- 
rial of the Treatise on Divine Things, 1812." 

If we now take a critical survey of the philosophical stand- 
point of Jacobi, we shall find its peculiarity' to consist in the 
abstract separation of understanding and feeling. These two 
Jacobi could not bring into harmonj'. " There is light in m}' 
heart," he sa3'S, " but it goes out whenever I attempt to bring 
it into the understanding. AYhich of these two is the true 
luminary? That of the understanding, which, though it re- 
veals fixed forms, shows behind them only a bottomless gulf? 
Or that of the heart, which sends its raj's promisingl}^ up- 
wards, though determinate knowledge escapes it? Can the 
human sphit grasp the truth unless it possesses these two 
luminaries united in one light? And is this union conceivable 
except thi'ough a miracle ? " K now, in order to escape in a 
certain degree this contradiction between understanding and 
feeling, Jacobi gave to immediate knowledge the place of 
mediate (finite) knowledge, he was self-deceived. Even that 
knowledge, which is supposed to be immediate, and which 
Jacobi regards as the peculiar organ for knowing the super- 
sensible, is also mediate, the result of a course of subjective 
jnediations, and can only claim to be immediate when it 
wholly forgets its own origin. 



ncHTE. 319 

SECTION XLI. 

FICHTE. 

JoHANN Gottlieb Fichte was born at Rammenau, in 
Upper Lusatia, 1762. A nobleman of Silesia became in- 
terested in the boy, and placed him first under the instruction 
of a clergyman, and afterwards at the high school at Schulp- 
forte. In his eighteenth year, at Michaelmas, 1780, Fichte 
entered the university at Jena to study theology. He soon 
found himself attracted to philosophy, and became powerfully 
affected by the study of Spinoza. His pecuniary circum- 
stances were straightened, but this only served to harden his 
will and his energy. Dming the year 1784, and subsequent- 
I3', he was emploj^ed as a teacher in various families in Sax- 
on3\ In 1787 he sought a place as country clergyman, but 
was refused on account of his religious opinions. He was 
now obliged to leave his fatherland, to which he clung with 
his whole soul. He repaired to Zurich, where, in 1788, he 
accepted a position as private tutor, and where also he be- 
came acquainted with his future wife, a niece of Klopstock. 
At Easter, 1790, he returned to Saxony and taught privately 
at Leipsic, where he became acquainted with the Kantian 
philosoph}", by means of lessons which he was obliged to give 
to a student. In the spring of 1791 we find him as private 
tutor at Warsaw, and soon after in Konigsberg, where he 
resorted, that he might become personally acquainted with the 
Kant he had learned to revere. Instead of a letter of recom- 
mendation he presented him his " Critique of all Revelation ^^' 
a treatise which he composed in four weeks. In this he 
attempted to deduce, from the practical reason, the possibihty 
of a revelation. This deduction is not purely a priori^ but 
is limited by an empirical condition, viz., that humanity 
must be considered to be in a moral ruin so complete, that 



6W A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the moral law has lost all its influence upon the will and all 
nioralit}' is extinguished. In such a case it might be expected 
that God, as moral governor of the world, would give to men, 
through the sense, some pure moral impulses, and reveal him- 
self to them as lawgiver through a special manifestation deter- 
mined for this end, in the world of sense. In such a case a 
particular revelation would be a postulate of the practical 
reason. Fichte sought also to determine a pricri the possible 
content of such a revelation. Since we need to know nothing 
but God, freedom, and immortalit}', the revelation will con- 
tain naught but these, and these it must contain in a compre- 
hensible form, yet so that the sj'mbolical dress may la}' no 
claim to unlimited veneration. This treatise, which appeared 
anon^-mously in 1792, at once attracted the gTcatest atten- 
tion, and was at first universall}' regarded as a work of Kant. 
It procm-ed for its author, soon after, a call to the chau' of 
philosophy at Jena, to succeed Reinhold, who then went to 
Kiel. Fichte received this appointment in 1793 at Zurich, 
where he had gone to consummate his marriage. At the 
same time he wrote and published, also anon^-mousl}', his 
'•'Aids to correct Views of the French Revolution^'' an essa}' 
which the governments never looked upon with favor. At 
Easter, 1794, he entered upon his new office, and soon saw 
his public call confirmed. Taking now a new standpoint, 
which transcended Kant, he sought to establish it, and carry 
it out in a series of writings (the Wissenschaftslehre appeared 
in 1794, the Naturrecht in 1796, and the Sittenlehre in 1798), 
by which he exerted a powerful influence upon the scientific 
movement in Germany, aided as he was in this b}^ the fact 
that Jena was then one of the most flourishing of the German 
universities, and the resort of all energetic minds. With 
(ioethe, Schiller, the brothers Schlegel, William von Hum- 
boldt and Ilufeland, Fichte was in close fellowship, though 
this was unfortunatel}' broken after a few 3'ears. In 1795 
he became associate editor of the ^^Philosophical Journal^'' 
which had l)een established by Nictluunmcr. A fellow-laborer. 



FICHTE. 321 

rector Forberg, of Saalfeld, offered for publication in this 
journal an article ' ' on the determination of the conception 
of religion." Fichte advised the author not to publish it, but 
at length inserted it in the joui'ual, prefacing it, however, with 
an introduction of his own, " On the ground of our faith in a 
divine government of the luorkl,'' in which he endeavored to 
remove, or at least soften, the views in the article which 
might give offence. Both the essays raised a great cry of 
atheism. The elector of Saxony confiscated the journal in 
his territory, and sent a requisition to the Ernestine Dulvcs, 
who held in common the universit}' of Jena, to summon the 
author to trial and punishment. Fichte answered the edict 
of confiscation and attempted to justif}' himself to the public 
(1799), by his ^^ Appeal to the Public. An essay which it is 
requested may he read before it is confiscated" ; while he de- 
fended his course to the government by an article entitled 
" TJie Publishers of the Philosophiccd Journcd justified from 
the Charge of Atheism ." The government of "Weimar, being 
as anxious to spare him as it was to please the elector of 
Saxony, dela3'ed its decision. But as Fichte, either with or 
without reason, had i:)rivately learned that the whole matter 
was to be settled b}' reprimanding the accused parties for 
their want of caution ; and, desiring either a ciWl acquittal 
or an open and proper satisfaction, he wrote a i^rivate letter 
to a member of the government, in which he desired his dis- 
mission in case of a reprimand, and which he closed with the 
intimation that many of his friends would leave the universit}' 
with him, in order to establish together a new one in Ger- 
many. The government regarded this letter as an applica- 
tion for his discharge, indirectly declaring that the reprimand 
was unavoidable. Fichte, now an object of suspicion, both 
on account of his religious and political Aiews, looked about 
him in vain for a place of refuge. The prince of Rudolstadt, 
to whom he turned, denied him his protection, and his arrival 
in Berhn (1799) attracted great notice. In Berhn, where he 
had much intercourse with Frederick Schlegel, and also TNith 



322 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Schleiermacher and Novalis, his views became gradually 
modified ; the catastrophe at Jena had led him from the 
exclusive moral standpoint which he, resting upon Kant, had 
hitherto held, to the sphere of religion ; he now sought to 
reconcile religion with his standpoint of the Wissensdiaftslehre^ 
and turned himself to a certain mysticism (the second form 
of the Fichtian theory). After he had privately taught a 
number of 3'ears in Berlin, and had also held philosophical 
lectures for men of culture, he was recommended (1805) b}' 
Be3^me and Altenstein to the chancellor of state, Hardenberg, 
for a professorship of philosophy in Erlangen, an appointment 
which he received together with a permit to return to Berlin 
in the winter, and hold there his philosophical lectures before 
the public. Thus, in the winter of 1807-8, while a French 
marshal was governor of Berlin, and while his voice was often 
drowned b}^ the hostile tumults of the enemy through the 
streets, he delivered his famous '•'•Addresses to the German 
]Sfatio7i.'' Ficlite labored most assiduously for the foundation 
of the Berlin universit}', for only through a complete trans- 
formation of the system of education did he believe the re- 
generation of Germany could be secured. When the new 
university was opened 1809, he was made in the first 3'ear 
dean of the philosophical facultj^, and in the second was in- 
vested with the dignit}^ of rector. In the " war of liberation," 
then breaking out, Fichte took a most active part both in 
word and deed. His wife had contracted a nervous fever b}- 
her care of the sick and wounded, and though she recovered, 
he fell a victim to the same disease. He died Jan. 28, 1814, 
not having 3'et completed his fift3'-second 3'ear. 

In tlie following exposition of Fichte's philosopli3% we dis- 
tinguish between the two internally different periods of his 
philosophizing, that of Jena and that of Berlin. The first 
division will include two parts — Fichte's theor3' of knowl- 
edge and his practical philosophy. 

I. The Fichtian Philosophy in its Original Form. 1. 
The Theoretical Philosophy of Fichte, his "Wissen- 



ncHTE. 323 

scHAFTSLEHRE, OR THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE. — It has already 
been shown (Sect. XXXIX.) that the thoroiigh-going subjec- 
tive idealism of Fichte was only the logical consequence of 
the Kantian standpoint. It was wholty unavoidable that 
Fichte should entirely reject the Kantian thing -in-itself^ which 
Kant had himself declared to be incognizable though real, 
and that he should posit as a proper act of the mind, that 
external influence which Kant had referred to the thing-in- 
itself. That the Ego alone is, and that what we regard as a 
limitation of the Ego b}^ external objects, is rather the proper 
self-limitation of the Ego, — this is the grand feature of the 
Fichtian idealism. 

Fichte himself supported the standpoint of his Theory 
of Knowledge as follows : In every perception there are given 
conjointly an Ego and a thing, the intelligence and its object. 
Which of these two sides must be reduced to the other ? If 
the philosopher abstracts the Ego, he has remaining a thing-in- 
itself, and must then apprehend his representations or sensa- 
tions as the products of this object ; if he abstracts the object, 
he has remaining an Ego4n-itself. The former is the basis 
of dogmatism, the latter of idealism. Both are irreconcilable 
with each other, and there is no third possible. We must 
therefore choose between the two. In order to decide be- 
tween the two sj^stems, we must note the following: (1) 
That the Ego appears in consciousness, while on the other 
hand the thing-in-itself is a ]oure invention, since in conscious- 
ness we have only that which is perceived ; (2) Dogmatism 
accounts for the origin of representations by assuming an 
object-in-itself; it starts from something which does not lie in 
the consciousness. But the effect of being is onlj^ being, and 
not representation. Hence idealism alone can be con-ect 
which does not start from being, but from intelligence. Ac- 
cording to idealism, intelligence is only active, not passive, 
because it is a first and absolute : and on this account there 
belongs to it no being, but simply an activity. The forms of 
this activity, the system of the necessary modes of intellectual 



324 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

activity must be deduced from the essential nature of intelli- 
gence. If we should take the laws of intelhgence from ex- 
perience, as Kant did his categories, we would err in two re- 
spects : (1) in so far as it is not shown why intelligence must 
so act, nor whether these laws are immanent laws of intelli- 
gence ; (2) in so far as it is not shown how the object itself 
originates. Hence the fundamental principles of intelhgence, as 
well as the objective world, must be derived from the Ego itself. 
Fichte supposed that in these results he onty expressed the 
true sense of the Kantian philosoph}^ "Whatever m}' sys- 
tem ma}' properly be, whether the genuine criticism thoroughly 
carried out, as I believe it is, or howsoever it be named, is of 
no account." His s^'stem, Fichte affirms, had the same view 
of the matter as Kant's, while the numerous followers of this 
latter philosopher had wholty mistaken and misunderstood 
theu' master's idealism. In the second introduction to the 
Theor}^ of Knowledge (1797), Fichte grants to these ex- 
pounders of the Critique of Pure Reason that it contains 
some passages where Kant would affirm that sensations must 
be given to the subject from without as the material condi- 
tions of objective reality ; but shows that the innumerably 
repeated declarations of the Critique, that there can be no 
discussion whatever in reference to the influence Upon us of a 
real transcendental object outside of us, cannot at all be 
reconciled with these passages, if an}' thing other than a 
mere thought be understood as the gTound of sensations. 
"So long," adds Fichte, "as Kant does not expressly de- 
clare that he derives sensations from an impression of a thing- 
in-itself, or, to use his terminology, that sensation must be 
explained from a transcendental object existing externally to 
us : so long will I not believe what these expounders tell us 
of Kant. But if he should give such an explanation, I should 
regard the Critique of Pure Reason as a work of chance 
rather than of design." For such an explanation the aged 
Kant did not sufl'cr him long to wait. In the Intelligenzhlatt 
der Allgemeinen Litteraturzeitunrj (1799), he formally, and 



ncHTE. 325 

with mucli emphasis, rejects the Fichtian improvement of his 
s^'stem, and protests against every interpretation of his 
•writings in accordance with an arbitrary theor}^ of what he 
intended to sa}', and maintains the literal interpretation of his 
theory as laid down in the Critique of Reason. Reinhold 
remarks upon all this : ' ' Since the well known and public 
explanation of Kant respecting Fichte's philosophy, there can 
be no longer a doubt that Kant himself would represent his 
own system, and desire to have it represented b}^ his readers, 
entirely otherwise than Fichte has represented and interpreted 
it. -But from this it indisputably follows, that Kant himself 
did not regard his s^'stem as illogical because it presupposed 
something external to subjectivity. Nevertheless, it does not 
at all follow that Fichte en-ed when he declared that this sj's- 
tem, with such a presupposition, must be illogical." So much 
for Reinhold. That Kant himself did not fail to see this 
want of logical consistenc}', is evident from -the changes he 
introduced into the second edition of the Critique of Pure 
Reason, where he suffered the idealistic side of his sj'stem to 
fall back decidedl}' behind the empirical. 

From what has been said, we can see the general stand- 
point of the Theorj' of Knowledge ; the Ego is made princi- 
ple, and from the Ego ever}- thing else is derived. It hardly 
needs to be remarked, that by this Ego we are to understand, 
not any individual, but the universal Ego, the universal ra- 
tionality. Egohood (IcJiJieit) and the individual, the pure 
and the empirical Ego, are wholly different conceptions. 

We have still to premise the following concerning the 
form of the Theory of Knowledge. A theor}' of knowledge, 
according to Fichte, must posit some supreme principle, from 
which every other must be derived. This supreme principle 
must be absolutely, and through itself, certain. If our human 
knowledge is to be coherent, a sj^stem, there must be such a 
supreme principle. But now, since such a principle does not 
admit of proof, we must determine its validity by experiment. 
Its test and demonstration can only be thus gained, viz., if 



326 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

we find a principle to which all knowledge may be referred, 
then is this shown to be a fundamental principle. But be- 
sides the first fundamental principle, there are yet two others 
to be considered, the one of which is unconditioned as to its 
content, but as to its form, conditioned through and derived 
from the first fundamental principle ; the other the reverse. 
Finall}^, these two principles are so related that though each 
is the opposite of the other, a third principle can be formed 
from their union. Hence, according to this plan and the pre- 
ceding exposition, the first absolute principle starts from the 
Ego, the second opposes to the Ego a thing or a non-Ego, 
and the third brings forward the Ego again in reaction 
against the thing or the non-Ego. This method of Fichte 
(thesis, — antithesis, — sj'nthesis) like that of Hegel, is a 
combination of tlie S3^nthetical and anatytical methods. 
Fichte has the merit of having brought the fundamental con- 
ceptions of pliilosopliy into determinate connection, and de- 
duced them from a common point, instead of taking them, as 
did Kant, merely empirically and placing them in juxtaposi- 
tion. We start with a fundamental S3-nthesis, from which 
through analysis we deduce two opposites, which are again 
united by another more definite sj-nthesis. But in this second 
syntliesis, analysis discovers still farther antitheses, which 
obliges us therefore to find another synthesis, and so onward 
in the process, till we come at length to antitheses which can 
no longer be perfectly but only approximately united. 

We stand now upon the threshold of the Theory of Knowl- 
edge. It is divided into three parts. (1) General principles 
of a theor}^ of knowledge. (2) Principles of theoretical 
knowledge. (3) Principles of practical (ethical) science. 

As has already been said, there are three supreme fundamen- 
tal principles, one absolutely unconditioned, and two rela- 
tively unconditioned. 

(1) The ahsolutely first and absohttehj unconditioned fun- 
damental iirinciple ought to express tliat act of the mind which 
lies at the basis of all consciousness, and alone makes con- 



FICHTE. 327 

sciousness possible. Such is the principle of identity, A = A. 
This principle remains, and cannot be thought awa}^, though 
every empirical determination be removed. It is a fact of 
consciousness, and must, therefore, be universally admitted : 
but at the same time it is by no means conditioned, like 
every other empirical fact, but unconditioned, because it is a 
free act. B}^ affirming that this principle is certain without 
any farther ground, we ascribe to ourselves the faculty of 
positing something absolutel3^ We do not, therefore, affirm 
that A is, but only that if A is, it is. It is no matter now 
about the content of the principle, we need only regard its 
form. The principle A = A is, therefore, conditioned (hypo- 
thetically) as to its content, and unconditioned only as to its 
form and its connection. If we would now have a principle 
unconditioned in its content as well as in its connection, we 
put Ego in the place of A, as we are fully entitled to do, 
since the connection of subject and predicate contained in 
the judgment A = A is posited in the Ego, and through the 
Ego. Hence A = A becomes transformed into Ego = Ego. 
This principle is unconditioned not only as to its connection, 
but also as to its content. While we could not, instead of 
A = A, sa}^ that A is, yet we can, instead of Ego = Ego, sa}' 
I am. All the facts of the empirical consciousness find their 
ground of explanation in this, viz., that before an}^ thing else 
is posited in the Ego, the Ego itself is given. This fact, that 
the Ego is absolutel}' posited and grounded on itself, is the 
basis of all activit}' in the human mind, and shows the pure 
character of activit}^ in itself. The Ego i5, because it posits 
itself, and it is onl}" because this simple positing of itself is 
wholly through itself. The being of the Ego is thus seen in 
the positing of the Ego, and on the other hand, the Ego is 
enabled to posit simply by virtue of its being. It is at the 
same time the acting, and the product of the action. I am, 
is the expression of the only possible original act. Logically 
considered we have, in the first principle of a theory of 
knowledge, A = A, the logical law of identity. From the 



328 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

proposition A = A, we arrive at the proposition Ego = T^go. 
The latter proposition, however, does not derive its vahdity 
from the former, but contrar3'wise. The priiis of all judg- 
ment is the Ego, which posits the connection of subject and 
predicate. The logical law of identity arises, therefore, 
from Ego = Ego. Metaphj'sicall}' considered, we have in 
this same first principle of a theory of knowledge, the cate- 
gor}^ of reality. "^Ye obtain this categor}^ b}" abstracting every 
thing from the content, and reflecting simply upon the mode 
of action of the human mind. From the Ego, as the abso- 
lute subject, ever}' category is derived. 

(2) The second fundamental principle., conditioned in its 
content, and only unconditioned in its form, which is just as 
incapable as the first of demonstration or derivation, is also 
a fact of the empuical consciousness : it is the proposition 
non-A is not = A. This proposition is unconditioned in its 
forai, because it is a free act like the first, from which it can- 
not be derived ; but in its content, as to its matter it is con- 
ditioned, because if a non-A is posited, there must have 
previousl}' been posited an A. Let us examine this principle 
more closel}'. In the first principle, A = A, the form of the 
act was a positing, while in this second principle it is an op- 
positing. There is an absolute opposition, and this opposi- 
tion, in its simple form, is an act absolutel}' possible, standing 
under no condition, limited b}' no higher ground. But as to 
its matter, the opposition (antithesis) presupposes a position 
(thesis) ; the non-A cannot be posited without the A. What 
non-A is, I do not through this contraposition itself 3'ct 
know : I onl}' know concerning non-A that it is the opposite 
of A : hence I only know what non-A is under the condition 
tliat I know A. But A is posited through the Ego ; there is 
originall}' nothing posited but the Ego, and nothing but this 
absolutely posited. Hence there can be an absolute opposi- 
tion onl}' to the Ego. That which is opposed to the Ego is 
the non-Ego. A non-Ego is absolutely opposed to the Ego, 
and this is the second fact of the empirical consciousness. 



FICHTE. 829 

In every thing ascribed to the Ego, the contrary, by virtue of 
this simple opposition, must be ascribed to the non-Ego. — 
As Tre obtained from the first principle Ego = Ego, the logi- 
cal law of identity, so now we have, from the second proposi- 
tion. Ego is not = non-Ego, the logical law of contradiction. 
And metaph^'sicall}', — if we wholly abstract the particular 
judgment concerned, and consider simpl}^ the form of infer- 
ence from opposited being to not-being, — we obtain from this 
second principle the category of negation. 

(3) The third principle, conditioned in its form, is almost 
capable of proof, since it is detennined by two others. At 
each step we approach the province where ever}^ thing can be 
proved. This third principle is conditioned in its form, and 
unconditioned onl}- in its content: i.e., the problem, but not 
the solution of the act to be established thi^ough it, has been 
giA^en through the two preceding principles. The solution is 
afforded unconditionall}' and absolutel}' by an arbitrar}" deci- 
sion of the reason. The problem to be solved by this third 
principle is this, viz., to adjust the contradiction contained in 
the other two. On the one side, the Ego is wholh' suppressed 
bj' the non-Ego : there can be no positing of the Ego so far 
as the non-Ego is posited. On the other side, the non-Ego is 
onl}' in the Ego, posited in the consciousness, and hence the 
Ego is not suppressed by the non-Ego : the Ego is both sup- 
pressed and not suppressed. Such a result would be non-A 
= A. In order to remove this contradiction, which threatens 
to desti'oy the identity of our consciousness, which is the only 
absolute foundation of our knowledge, we must find an x 
which will justify both of the first two principles, and leave 
the identity of om* consciousness undisturbed. The two op- 
posites, the Ego and the non-Ego, are to be united in the 
consciousness, are to be alike posited without either excluding 
the other ; they are to be received in the identit}- of the 
proper consciousness. How shall being and not-being, reality 
and negation, be conceived together without destroying each 
other? They must reciprocally ^wTiiY each other. Hence the 



330 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

unknown quantity x, which we are seeking, stands for these 
limits : Hmitation is the sought-for act of the Ego ; or if con- 
ceived as a category, it is the categor}^ of determination or 
limitation. But in hmitation, there is also given the category 
of quantity^ for when we say that any thing is limited, we mean 
that its reality is through negation, not wJiolly, but onl}'- par- 
tially suppressed. 

Thus the conception of limit contains also the conception of 
divisibility and of quantitabilit}^ in general, besides the con- 
ceptions of reality and negation. Through the act of limita- 
tion, the Ego, as well as the non-Ego, is posited as divisible. 
Still farther, we see how a logical law follows from the third 
fundamental principle as well as from the first two. If we 
abstract the definite content, the Ego and the non-Ego, and 
leave remaining the simple form of the union of opposites 
through the conception of divisibility, we have then the logi- 
cal principle of the ground or sufficient reason^ which may be 
expressed in the formula : A in part = non-A, non-A in part 
= A. Wherever two opposites are alike in one character- 
istic, we consider the ground to be a ground of relation, and 
wherever two similar things are opposite in one character- 
istic, we consider the ground to be a ground of distinction. — 
With these three principles we have now exhausted the 
measure of that which is unconditioned and absolutely cer- 
tain. We can embrace the three in the following formula : 

1 posit in the Ego a divisible non-Ego over against the 
divisible Ego. No philosophy can go be^^ond this cognition, 
and every well-grounded philosophy should go back to this. 
Just so far as it does this, it becomes science ( Wissenschafts- 
lehre) . Every thing which can appear in a system of knowl- 
edge, as well as a farther division of the Theory of Kiiowledge 
itself, must be derived from this. The proposition that the 
Ego and non-Ego reciprocally limit each other, ma}^ be divid- 
ed into tlie following two : (1) tlie Ego posits itself as limited 
tlirough the non-Ego (i.e., the Ego apprehends itself as cog- 
nitive or passive) ; (2) the Ego posits the non-Ego as limit- 



FICHTE. 331 

ed through the Ego (^.e., the Ego apprehends itself as active). 
The former proposition is the basis of the theoretical, and the 
latter of the practical part of the Theory of Knowledge. The 
latter part cannot, at the outset, be brought upon the stage ; 
for the non-Ego, which is to be limited by the activity of the 
Ego, does not at the outset exist, and we must wait and see 
whether it will find, in the theoretical part, a reality. 

The elementary principles of theoretical knowledge are de- 
veloped through an uninterrupted series of antitheses and 
syntheses. The fundamental synthesis of the theoretical part 
of the Theory of Knowledge is the proposition : the Ego 
posits itself as determined (limited) by the non-Ego. If we 
analyze this proposition, we find in it two subordinate propo- 
sitions which are reciprocally opposed. (1) The non-Ego as 
active determines the Ego, which to this extent is passive ; 
but since all activity must originate with the Ego, (2) the 
Ego determines itself through an absolute activity. Herein 
is a contradiction, that the Ego should be at the same time 
active and passive. Since this contradiction would destroy 
the above principle, and also suppress the unity of conscious- 
ness, we are forced to seek some point, some new synthesis, 
in which these given antitheses may be united. This synthe- 
sis is attained when we find that the conceptions of action 
and passion, which are contained under the categories of 
reality and negation, find their compensation and due adjust- 
ment in the conception of divisibility. The propositions : 
"the Ego determines," and "the Ego is determined," are 
reconciled in the proposition : " the Ego determines itself in 
part, and is determined in part." Both, however, should be 
considered as one and the same. Hence more accurate^: 
as many parts of reality as the Ego posits in itself, so many 
parts of negation does it posit in the non-Ego ; and as many 
parts of reality as the Ego posits in the non-Ego, so many 
parts of negation does it posit in itself. This determination 
is reciprocal deter minatioyi^ or reciprocal action. Thus Fichte 
deduces the last of the three categories under Kant's general 



332 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

categoiy of relation. In a similar way (viz., by a S3'ntliesis 
of previously discovered contradictories) , he deduces the two 
other categories of this class, viz., that of cause, and that of 
substance. The process is as follows : So far as the Ego is 
determined, and therefore passive, the non-Ego has realit3\ 
The categor}' of reciprocal determination, to which we may 
ascribe indifferentl}' either of the two sides, reality or nega- 
tion, ma}', more strictly taken, imply that the Ego is passive, 
and the non-Ego active. The notion which expresses this 
relation is that of causality. That to which activit}^ is 
ascribed, is called cause (primal realitj^), and that to which 
passivit}" is ascribed, is called effect; both, conceived in con- 
nection, may be termed an operation or action. On the other 
side, the Ego determines itself. Herein is a contradiction ; 
(1) the Ego determines itself; it is therefore that which de- 
termines, and is thus active ; (2) it determines itself; it is 
therefore that which is determined, and is thus passive. Thus 
in one respect and in one action both realit}' and negation are 
ascribed to it. To resolve this contradiction, we must find a 
mode of action which is activity and passivit}' in one ; the 
Ego must determine its passivit}^ thi'ough activity, and its 
activity- through passivity. This solution is attained by aid 
of the conception of quantit}'. In the Ego all reality is first 
of all posited as absolute quantum, as absolute totalit}' , and 
thus far the Ego may be compared to a great circle. A defi- 
nite quantum of activity, or a limited sphere within this great 
circle of activity, is indeed a reality ; but when compared with 
the totality of activity-, is it also a negation of the totality or 
passivity. Here we have found the mediation sought for ; it 
lies in the notion of substance. In so far as the Ego is con- 
sidered as the whole circumference, embracing the totality 
of all realities, is it substance ; but so far as it becomes pos- 
ited in a determinate sphere of this circle, is it accidental. 
No accidence is conceivable without substance ; for, in order 
to know that any thing is a definite reality, it must first be 
referred to reality in general, or to substance. In every 



FICHTE. 333 

change we think of substance in the universal ; accidence is 
something specific (determinate), which changes with every 
changing cause. There is originally hut one substance^ the 
Ego ; in this one substance all possible accidents, and there- 
fore all possible realities, are posited. The Ego alone is the 
absolutely infinite. The intellectual and practical activity of 
the Ego implies limitation. The Fichtian theor}' is accord- 
ingly Spinozism, only (as Jacobi strikinglj' called it) a re- 
versed and idealistic Spinozism. 

Let us look back a moment. The objectivity which Kant 
had allowed to exist Fichte has destroyed. There is only 
the Ego. But the Ego presupposes a non-Ego, and therefore 
a kind of object. How the Ego comes to posit such an ob- 
ject, the theoretical theor}' of knowledge must now proceed 
to show. 

There are two extreme views respecting the relation of the 
Ego to the non-Ego, according as we start from the concep- 
tion of cause, or that of substance. (1) Starting from the 
conception of causality, we have posited through the passiv- 
ity of the Ego an activity of the non-Ego. This passivity of 
the Ego must have some ground. This cannot lie in the 
Ego, which in itself posits only activity. Consequently it 
lies in the non-Ego. Here the distinction between action 
and passion is apprehended, not simply as quantitative (i.e., 
viewing the passivit}^ as a diminished activity), but the 
passion is in quality opposed to the action ; a presupposed 
activity of the non-Ego is, therefore, a real ground of the 
passiveness in the Ego. (2) Starting from the conception 
of substance, we have posited a passivity of the Ego through 
its own activity. Here the passivity in respect of quality is 
the same as activit}^, it being only a diminished activity. 
While, therefore, according to the first view, the passive Ego 
has a ground distinct in quality from the Ego, and thus a 
real ground, yet here its ground is onl}' a diminished activity 
of the Ego, distinct only in quantity from the Ego, and is 
thus an ideal ground. The former view is dogmatic realism, 



334 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the latter is dogmatic idealism. The latter affirms : all real- 
ity of the non-Ego is only a realitj^ given it from the Ego ; 
the former declares : nothing can be given, unless there be 
something to receive, unless an independent reality of the 
non-Ego, as thing-in-itself, be presupposed. Both views 
present thus a contradiction, which can only be removed by 
a new synthesis. Fichte attempted this synthesis of ideaUsm 
and realism, by bringing out a mediating system of critical 
idealism. For this purpose he sought to show that the ideal 
ground and the real ground are one and the same. Neither 
is the simple activity of the Ego a ground for the reality of 
the non-Ego, nor is the simple activity of the non-Ego a 
ground for the passiveness in the Ego. Both must be con- 
ceived together in this waj', viz., the activity of the Ego 
meets a hindrance^ which is set up against it, not without 
some assistance of the Ego, and which ckcumscribes and re- 
flects back upon itself this activity of the Ego. The hind- 
rance consists in this, that the subjective can be no farther 
extended, and the expanding activity of the Ego is driven 
back into itself, producing as its result self-limitation. What 
we call objects are nothing other than the different impacts 
of the activit}' of the Ego on some incomprehensible hind- 
rance, and these determinations of the Ego, we carry over to 
something external to ourselves, and represent them to our- 
selves as space-filling matter. That which Fichte calls a 
hindrance through the non-Ego, is thus in fact the same that 
Kant calls thing-in-itself, the only difference being that with 
Fichte it is made subjective. From this point Fichte then 
deduces the subjective activities of the Ego, which mediate, 
or seek to mediate, thcoreticall}", the Ego with the non-Ego 
— as imagination, representation (sensation, intuition, feel- 
ing) , understanding, faculty of judgment, reason, — and in 
connection with these the subjective projections of intuition, 
space and time. 

We have now reached the third part of the Theory of 
Knoiuledfje , viz., the foiindaUon of the practical. We have 



FICHTE. 335 

apprehended the Ego as a representing intelligence. But 
that it represents does not depend upon the Ego alone, but is 
determined by something external to it. We could in no way 
conceive of a representation, except through the presupposi- 
tion that the Ego finds some hindrance to its undetermined 
and unhmited activity. Accordingly the Ego, as intelligence, 
is universally dependent upon an indefinite, and hitherto 
wholly indefinable non-Ego, and only through and by means 
of such non-Ego, is it intelligence. These limits, however, 
must be broken through. The Ego, according to all its de- 
terminations, should be posited absolutely tlu^ough itself, and 
hence should be wholly independent of every possible non- 
Ego. But in so far as it is an intelligence it is finite, depen- 
dent. Consequently, the absolute Ego and the intelligent 
Ego, both of which should constitute but one, are opposed to 
each other. This contradiction is obviated, when we see that 
because the absolute Ego is capable of no passivity, but is 
absolute activity, therefore the Ego determines, through itself, 
that hitherto unknown non-Ego, to which the hindrance has 
been ascribed. The limits which the Ego, as theoretic, has 
set over against itself in the non-Ego, it must, as practical, 
seek to destroy, and absorb again the non-Ego into itself (or 
conceive it as the self-hmitation of the Ego) . The Kantian 
primacy of the practical reason is here made a truth. The 
transition of the theoretical part to the practical, the neces- 
sity of advancing from the one to the other, Fichte represents 
more precisel}^ thus : The theoretical part of the Theory of 
Knowledge had to do with the mediation of the Ego, and the 
non-Ego. For this end it introduced one connecting link 
after another, without ever attaining its end. Then enters 
the reason with the absolute and decisive word : " there ought 
to be no non-Ego, since the non-Ego can in no way be united 
with the Ego ; " and with this the knot is cut, though not 
untied. Thus it is the incongruit}^ between the absolute 
(practical) Ego, and the finite (intelligent) Ego, which is 
carried over beyond the theoretical province into the practical. 



336 A HISTORY OF PHH^OSOPHY. 

True, this incongruitj- does not wholl}' disappear, even in the 
practical province, where activity is only an infinite striving 
to surpass the limits of the non-Ego. The Ego, so far as it 
is practical, has, indeed, the tendency to pass bej^ond the 
actual world, and establish an ideal world such as would exist 
were every reality posited b}^ the absolute Ego ; but this 
striving is always confined to the finite partly through itself, 
because it goes out towards objects, and objects are finite, 
and partly because the conscious self-positing of the Ego re- 
mains always confined by a non-Ego opposed to it and lim- 
iting its activit}-. We ought to seek to reach the infinite, but 
we cannot do it ; this striving and inability is the impress of 
our destiny for eternit3\ 

Thus — and in these words Fichte brings together the re- 
sult of the Theory of Knowledge — the whole being of finite 
rational natures is comprehended and exhausted : an original 
idea of our absolute being ; an eflTort to reflect upon our- 
selves, in accordance with this idea ; a limitation, not of this 
striving, but of our own existence, which first becomes actual 
through this limitation, through an opposite principle, a non- 
Ego, or, in general, through our finiteness ; a self-conscious- 
ness, and especially a consciousness of our practical strivings ; 
a determination according^ of our representations, and 
through these of our actions ; a constant widening of our 
limits into the infinite. 

2 . Ficiite's Practical Philosophy. — The principles which 
Fichte had developed in his Theory of Knowledge he applied 
to practical life, especially to the theory of rights and morals. 
He sought to deduce here every thing with methodical rigid- 
ness, without admitting any unreasoned facts of experience. 
Thus, in the theory of rights and of morals, he will not pre- 
suppose a plurality of persons, but first deduces this : even 
that man has a body is first demonstrated, though, to be sure, 
not stringently. 

Tlie Thaory of llhjhls (natural rights) Fichte founds upon 
the conception ol' the individual. First, he deduces the con- 



FICHTE. 337 

ception of rights as follows : A finite rational being cannot 
posit itself without ascribing to itself a free activity. Tlirough 
this assertion of its capacity for free activity, a rational being- 
posits an external world of sense, for it can ascribe to itself 
no activity till it has posited an object towards which this ac- 
ti\ity may be directed. Still farther, this free activity of a 
rational being presupposes other rational beings, for without 
these it would never be conscious that it was free. We have 
therefore a plurality of free individuals, each one of whom 
has a sphere of free activit}-. This co-existence of free indi- 
viduals is not possible without a relation of rights. Since 
through his own free determination no one passes bej'ond his 
sphere, and each one therefore limits himself, they recognize 
each other as rational and free. This relation of a reciprocal 
action through intelligence and freedom between rational be- 
ings, according to which each one has his freedom limited by 
the conception of the possibilit}^ of the other's freedom, under 
the condition also that this other limits his own freedom also 
through that of the first, is called a relation of right. The 
supreme maxim of a theory of rights is therefore this : limit 
thy freedom through the conception of the freedom of ever}^ 
other person with whom thou canst be connected. After 
Fichte has attempted the application of this conception of 
rights, and for this end has deduced the corporeit}^, the an- 
thropological side of man, he passes over to a proper theory 
of rights. The theor}^ of rights may be divided into three 
parts : (1) Rights which spring from the pure conception of 
personality are called original rights. Original right is the 
absolute right of a person to be only a cause in the sensuous 
world, i.e., absolutely not an effect. In this are contained, 
(a) the right of personal (bodily) freedom, and (5) the right 
of property. But every relation of rights between individual 
persons is conditioned through each one's recognition of the 
rights of the other. Each one must hmit the quantum of his 
free acts for the sake of the freedom of the other, and only 
so far as the other has respect to my freedom need I have 
15 



338 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

regard to his. In case, therefore, the other does not respect 
my original rights, some mechanical necessity must be sought 
in order to secure the rights of person, and this involves (2) 
the right of coercion. The laws of punishment have their 
end in securing that the opposite of that which is intended 
shall follow every unrighteous aim, that every vicious purpose 
shall be destroyed, and the right in its integrity be estab- 
lished. To establish such a law of coercion, and to secure 
a universal coercive power, the free individuals must enter 
into covenant among themselves. Such a covenant is only 
possible on the ground of a common nature. Natural right, 
^.e., the rightful relation between man and man, presup- 
poses thus (3) a civil rights viz., (a) a free covenant, a 
compact of citizens by which the free individuals guarantee to 
each other their reciprocal rights ; (6) positive laws, a civil 
legislation, through which the common will of all becomes 
law ; (c) an executive, a civil power which executes the com- 
mon will, and in which, therefore, the private will and the 
common will are sj'ntheticall}^ united. Tiie ultimate view of 
Fichte's theor}' of rights is this : on the one side there is the 
state such as reason demands (philosophical theor}' of rights) , 
and on the other side the state as it actually is (theor}' of 
positive rights and of the state) . But now comes up the 
problem, to make the actual state ever more and more con- 
formable to the rational state. The science which has this 
approximation for its aim, is politics. We can demand of 
no actual state a perfect conformity to the idea of a state. 
Ever}^ state constitution is according to right, if it only leaves 
possible an advancement to a better state, and the only con- 
stitution wholly contrary to right is that whose end is to hold 
every thing just as it is. 

Tlie absolute Ego of the Theon/ of Knowledge is separated 
in the thcor}^ of riglits into an infinite number of persons 
endowed with rights : to bring it out again in its unit}' is the 
problem of ethics. Right and morals are essentiall}^ differ- 
ent. Right is the external necessity to omit or to do some- 



FICHTE. 339 

thing in order not to infringe upon the freedom of another ; 
the inner necessity to do or omit something wholly independ- 
ent of external ends, constitutes the moral nature of man. 
And as the theory of rights arose from the conflict of the 
impulse of freedom in one subject with the impulse of freedom 
in another subject, so does the theory of morals or ethics 
arise from such a conflict, which, in the present case, is not 
external but internal, between two impulses in one and the 
same person. (1) The rational being is impelled towards 
absolute independence, and strives after freedom for the sake 
of freedom. This fundamental impulse may be called the 
pure impulse, and it furnishes the formal principle of ethics, 
the principle of absolute autonomy, of absolute indetermina- 
bleness through any thing external to the Ego. But (2) as 
the rational being is actuall}" empirical and finite, as it by 
nature posits over against itself a non-Ego and posits itself 
as corporeal, so there is found beside the jDure impulse an- 
other, the impulse of nature (instinct) which takes for its 
end not freedom but enjopnent. This impulse of nature fur- 
nishes the material, utihtarian (eudoemonistic) principle of 
striving after pleasure for the sake of pleasure. These t^^o 
impulses seem to annihilate each other ; but from a transcen- 
dental point of view they are one and the same primitive 
impulse of human nature. For even the instinct of self- 
preservation is an expression of the eflTort of the Ego after 
self-activity, and it cannot be repressed. If these natural 
instincts should be destro3*ed, all conscious action, all definite 
activity, would perish. Both impulses are, therefore, to be 
united in such a wa}' that the natural shall be subordinated 
to the pu7'e. This union can occur onl}- in an act, which in 
content (matter) is based, as is the natural impulse, upon 
the sensuous world, but in its ultimate aim, like the pure im- 
pulse, endeavors to bring about a complete separation from 
the world of sense. The problem is neither a purel}- negative 
withdrawal from the world of objects, in order that the Ego 
may attain a purely independent existence, nor a struggle for 



340 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

happiness ; but a positive act in the sensuous world through 
which the Ego shall become ever freer, and its power over 
the non-Ego, the supremac}^ of reason over nature, shall be 
more and more full3^ realized. This effort to act freely in 
order to become more free, is the ethical impulse, and it is 
formed from the union of the pure and the natural impulse. 
The ultimate aim of moral action, however, lies in infinitude ; 
it can never be attained, since the Ego can never be com- 
pletely freed from all limitation, so long as it remains intelli- 
gence, self-conscious personalit}'. The nature of a moral act 
is consequentl}^ to be defined thus : all action must constitute 
a series of acts in the prosecution of which the Ego can see 
itself approximating to absolute independence. Every act 
must be a term of this series : there are no indiflferent acts. 
Our moral vocation is to be ever engaged in actions which 
belong to this scries. The principle of morals is, therefore : 
Ahvays fulfil your vocation ! On its formal, subjective side 
it is essential to moral activit}", that it should be an intelli- 
gent, free, rational activity : be free in all that you do in 
order to become free ! We ought to follow neither the pure 
nor the natural impulse, blindly. We should act only with 
the clear consciousness that what we do relates to our voca- 
tion or duty. AVe must do our duty for its own sake. The 
bhnd impulses of uncorrupted instinct, sympathy, pity, hu- 
manity, etc., do indeed, by virtue of the original identity of 
pure and instinctive impulse, promote the same ends as the 
former. But as mere natural impulses they have no ethical 
character. The ethical impulse possesses causality in a way 
which seems to indicate the lack of it, for it bids us, — he free. 
Only through free activit}^ in accordance with the idea of abso- 
lute duty is a reasonable being absolutely independent ; only 
action from a sense of duty manifests pure rationality. Tlie 
formal condition of the morality of our actions is : act always 
according to tlie conviction of tl\y duty ; or, act according to 
thy conscience. The absolute criterion of the correctness of 
our conviction of duty is a feeling of truth and certainty. 



FICHTE. 341 

This immediate feeling never deceives, for it onl}^ exists with 
the perfect harmony of our empirical Ego with that which is 
pure and original. From this point Fichte develops his par- 
ticular ethics, or theory of duties, which, however, we must 
here pass by. 

Fichte's theory of religion is developed in the above-men- 
tioned treatise: "Ori the Ground of our Faith in a Divine 
Government of the World" and in the writings which he sub- 
sequentl}^ put forth in its defence. The moral government of 
the world, sa^^s Fichte, we assume to be the Deity. This 
divine government becomes living and actual in us through 
right-doing : it is presupposed in every one of om' actions 
which are only performed in the presupposition that the moral 
end is attainable in the world of sense. The faith in such an 
order of the world comprises the whole of faith, for this 
living and active moral order is God ; we need no other God, 
and can comprehend no other. There is no ground in the 
reason to go outside of this moral order of the world, and by 
concluding from design to a designer, aflSrm a separate being 
as its cause. Is, then, this order an accidental one? It is 
the absolute First of all objective knowledge. But now if 
3'ou should be allowed to draw the conclusion that there is a 
God as a separate being, what have jon gained by this ? This 
being should be distinct from you and the world ; it should 
work in the latter according to conceptions ; it should, there- 
fore, be capable of conceptions, and possess personality and 
consciousness. But what do you call personality and con- 
sciousness ? Certainly that which you have found in yourself, 
which you have learned to know in yourself, and which you 
have characterized by that name. But that you cannot con- 
ceive of this without limitation and finiteness, 3'ou might see 
by the slightest attention to the construction of this concep- 
tion. By attaching, therefore, such a predicate to this being, 
you bring it down to a finite, and make it a being like your- 
self; you have not conceived God as you intended to do, but 
have only multiplied yourself in thought. The conception of 



342 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

God, as a separate substance, is impossible and contradietoiy. 
God has essential existence onl}" as such a moral order of the 
world. Ever}' belief in a divine being, which contains any 
thing more than the conception of the moral order of the 
world, is an abomination to me, and in the highest degree 
unworthy of a rational being. — Religion and moralit}^ are, 
on this standpoint, as on that of Kant, naturally one ; both 
are an apprehending of the supersensible, the former through 
action and the latter through faith. This "Religion of joj-ous 
right-doing," Fichte farther carried out in the writings which 
he put forth to rebut the charge of atheism. He affirms that 
nothing but the principles of the new philosophy can restore 
the degenerate religious sense among men, and bring to light 
the inner essence of the Christian doctrine. He seeks to 
show this especially in his ' ' appeal " to the public. In this 
he sa^'s : to furnish an answer to the questions, what is good? 
what is true? is the aim of ni}' philosophical S3^stem. We 
must start with the affirmation that there is something abso- 
lutety true and good ; that there is something which can hold 
and bind the free flight of thought. There is a voice in man 
which cannot be silenced, which affiims that there is a dut}^, 
and that it must be done simply for its own sake. Resting 
on this basis, there is opened to us an entirely new world in 
our being ; we attain a higher existence, which is independent 
of all natm-e, and is grounded simply in ourselves. I would 
call this absolute self-satisfaction of the reason, this perfect 
freedom from all dependence, blessedness. As the single but 
uneri'ing means of blessedness, my conscience points me to 
the fulfilment of duty. I am, therefore, impressed b}' the 
unshaken conviction, that there is a rule and fixed order, ac- 
cording to which the purely moral disposition necessaril}^ 
produces blessedness. It is absolutely necessary", and it is 
the essential element in religion, that the man who would 
maintain the dignity of his reason, should repose on the faith 
in this order of a moral world, should regard each one of his 
duties as an enactment of this order, and joyfully submit 



FICHTE. 343 

himself to, and find bliss in, every consequence of his dut3^ 
Thou shalt know God if thou canst only beget in thyself a 
dutiful character, and though to others of us thou maj-est 
seem to be still in the world of sense, jet for thyself art thou 
already a partaker of eternal life. 

II. The later form of Fichte's Philosophy. — Every 
thing of importance which Fichte accomplished as a specula- 
tive philosopher, is contained in the Theory of Knowledge as 
above considered. Subsequently^, after his departure from 
Jena, his s^^stem gradually became modified, and from differ- 
ent causes. Partly, because it was difficult to maintain the 
rigid ideahsm of the Theory of Knoivledge ; partly, because 
ScheUing's natural philosophy, which now appeared, was not 
without an influence upon Fichte's thinl^ing, though the latter 
denied this and became involved in a bitter controversy with 
Schelling ; and, partl}^, Ms outward relations, which were far 
from being happ}--, contributed to modify his view of the 
world. Fichte's T\Titings, in this second period, are for the 
most part popular, and intended for a mixed class of read- 
ers. They all bear the impress of his acute mind, and of his 
exalted manly character, but lack the originality and the 
scientific sequence of his earlier productions. Those of them 
which are scientific do not satisfy the demands which he him- 
self had previousl}'- laid down with so much strictness, both 
for himself and others, in respect of genetic construction and 
pliilosophical method. His doctrine at this time seems rather 
a web of his old subjective idealistic conceptions and the 
newly added objective idealism, so loosely connected that 
Schelling might caU it the completest syncretism and eclecti- 
cism. His new standpoint is chiefl}^ distinguished from his 
old by his attempt to merge his subjective ideahsm into an 
objective pantheism (with many points of resemblance to 
Neo-Platonism) , to transmute the Ego of his earlier philoso- 
phy into the absolute, or the thought of God. God, whose 
conception he had formerly placed only at the end of his sys- 
tem, in the doubtful form of a moral order of the world, be- 



ol-i A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

comes to him now the absohite beginning, and single element 
of his philosoph3^ This gives to his philosoph}- an entirel}^ 
new color. Moral severity gives place to a religious mild- 
ness ; instead of the Ego and the Ought, life and love are 
now the chief features of his philosoph}' ; in place of the exact 
dialectic of the Theory of Knowledge^ he now makes choice 
of mystical and metaphorical modes of expression. 

This second period of Fichte's philosophy is especially 
characterized b}' its inclination to religion and Chi'istianit}', 
as exhibited most prominently in the essay '''•Direction to a 
Blessed Life.'' Fichte here affii-ms that his new doctrine is 
exactl}" that of Chiistianit}", and especially of the Gospel 
according to John. He would make this gospel alone the 
clear foundation of Christian truth, since the other apostles 
remained half Jews after then- conversion, and adhered to the 
fundamental error of Judaism, that the world had a creation 
in time. Fichte lays gTeat weight upon the first part of 
John's prologue, where the formation of the world out of 
nothing is confuted, and a true view laid down of a revelation 
co-eternal with God, and necessarily given with his being. 
That which this prologue says of the incarnation of the Logos 
in the person of Jesus, has, according to Fichte, onlj^ a his- 
toric validit}^ The absolute and eternally ti'ue standpoint is, 
that at all times, and in every one, without exception, who is 
vitalh' sensible of his union with God, and who actual^ and 
in fact fields up his whole individual life to the divine life 
within him, — the eternal word becomes flesh in the same way 
as in Jesus Christ, and holds a personal, sensible, and human 
existence. The whole communion of behevers, the fii'st-born 
alike with the later born, coincides in the Godhead, the com- 
mon source of life for all. And so then, Chiistianit}" having 
gained its end, disappears again in the eternal truth, and 
afhrms that every man should come to a union with God. 
So long as man desires to be himself an}- thing whatsoever, 
God does not come to him, for no man can become God. 
But just as soon as he purely, wholl}', and radically gives up 



HEEBAET. 845 

himself, God alone remains, and is all and in all. Man can- 
not make for himself a God, but he can give up himself as a 
proper negation, and thus he disappears in God. 

The result of his advanced philosophizing, Fichte has 
briefly and clearly comprehended in the following lines, which 
we extract from two posthumous sonnets : — 

The perennial One 
Lives in my life and seeth in my sight. 
God only is — and God is nought but life ! 
And yet thou knowest and I know with thee. 
If such a thing as knowing then can be, 
Must it not be a knowing of God's life? 
" Gladly to His mij life I would resign: 
But oh ! how find it? If 'tis ever brought 
Into my knowing, it becomes a thought, 
Clad with thought's garb like other thoughts of mine." 
The obstacle, my friend, is very clear, 
It is thy self. Whate'er can die, resign. 
And God alone will hence breathe in thy breath. 
Note well what may survive this partial death, 
Then shall the hull to thee as hull appear, 
And thou shalt see unveiled the life divine.* 



SECTION XLII. 

HEEBAET. 

A PECULIAR, and in man}" respects noticeable, development 
of the Kantian philosophy, was attempted by Johann Fried- 
rich SerbaH, who was bora at Oldenburg in 1776, chosen 
professor of philosophy in Gottingen in 1805 ; made Kant's 
successor at Konigsberg in 1808, and recalled to Gottingen 



* From the translation of A, E. Kroeger. The lines here given include the 
last two lines of the second, and the whole of the third, of Fichte's sonnets. — 
B. E. S. 



346 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

in 1833, where he died in 1841. His philosophy, instead of 
taking, hke most other systems, for its principle, an idea of 
the reason, followed the direction of Kant, and expended it- 
self mainly in a critical examination of subjective experi- 
ence. It is essentiall}' a criticism, but with results which are 
peculiar, and which differ wholl}^ from those of Kant. Its 
position in the histor}^ of philosophy is from the very nature 
of its fundamental principle an isolated one ; instead of re- 
garding antecedent S3^stems as elements of a true philosophy, 
it looks upon almost all of them as failures. It is especially 
hostile to the Post-Kantian German philosophy, and most of 
all to Schelling's philosophy of nature, in which it could only 
behold a phantasm and a delusion ; sooner than come in con- 
tact with this, it would join Hegelianism, of which it is the 
opposite pole. We will give a brief exposition of its prom- 
inent thoughts. 

1 . The Basis and Starting-point of Philosophy is, according 
to Herbart, the common view of things, or a knowledge which 
accords with experience. A philosophical system is. in real- 
ity nothing but an attempt by which some one thinker strives 
to solve certain questions which present themselves to him. 
Everj^ question in philosophy should relate singly and solely 
to that which is given, and must arise from this source alone, 
because there is for man no original field of certainty, other 
than experience. Every philosophy should begin with it. 
Thought should yield itself to experience, which should lead 
it, and not be led by it. Experience, therefore, is the only 
object and basis of philosophy ; that which is not given can- 
not be an object of thought, and it is impossible to establish 
an}' knowledge which transcends the limits of experience. 

2. Though the material furnished by experience is the 
basis of philosophy, yet, since it is furnished (given read}'- 
formed) it stands outside of philosophy. The question arises, 
wliat is the first act or beginning of philosophy? Thought 
should first separate itself from experience, that it may clearly 
see the difficulties of its undertaking. The beginning of phi- 



HEEBAET. 347 

losophy^ where thought rises above that which is given, is 
accordingly doubt or scepticism. Scepticism is twofold, a 
lower and a higher. The lower scepticism simply doubts 
that things are so constituted as they appear to us to be ; the 
higher scepticism passes beyond the form of the phenomenon, 
and inquires whether in reality any thing there exists. It 
doubts, e.g.^ the succession in time; it asks in reference to 
the forms of the objects of nature which exhibit design, 
whether the design is perceived, or only attached to them in 
thought, etc. Thus the problems which form the content of 
metaphysic, are gradually brought out. The result of scep- 
ticism is therefore not negative, but positive. Doubt is noth- 
ing but the thinking of those conceptions of experience which 
are the material of philosophy. Tln*ough this reflection, scep- 
ticism leads us to the knowledge that these conceptions of 
experience, though they refer to something given, yet contain 
no content that is conceivable, i.e., free from logical incon- 
gruities. 

3. Remodelling of the conceptions of experience. — Meta- 
physic, according to Herbart, is the science of that which is 
intelligible in experience. Our view thus far has been a two- 
fold one. On the one side we hold fast to the opinion that 
the sole basis of philosophy is experience, and on the other 
side scepticism has shaken the credibility of experience. 
The point now is to transform this scepticism into a definite 
knowledge of metaphysical problems. Conceptions from ex- 
perience crowd upon us, which are incogitable, i.e., they may 
indeed be thought by the ordinar}^ understanding, but this 
thinking is obscure and confused, and does not separate nor 
compare opposing characteristics. But acute thought, logi- 
cal analysis, will find in the conceptions of experience (e.gr., 
space, time, becoming, motion, etc.), contradictions, totally 
inconsistent characteristics. What now is to be done ? We 
may not reject these conceptions, for they are given, and 
be3'ond the given we cannot step ; we cannot retain them, for 
they are inconceivable and cannot logically be established. 



348 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

The only way of escape which remains to us is to remodel 
them. To remodel the conceptions of experience^ to eliminate 
their contradictions, is the proper act of speculation. Scep- 
ticism has brought to light the more definite problems which 
involve a contradiction, and whose solution it therefore be- 
longs to metaphysics to attempt ; the most important of these 
are the problems of inherence, change, and the Ego. 

The relation between Herbart and Hegel is very clear at 
this point. Both are agTeed respecting the contradictor}" 
nature of the determinations of thought, and the conceptions 
of experience. But from this point the}' diverge. It is the 
nature of these conceptions as of ever}" thing, sa3"S Hegel, to 
be an inner contradiction ; becoming, for instance, is essen- 
tiall}" the unity of being, and not being, etc. This is im- 
possible, saj's Herbart, on the other hand, so long as the 
principle of contradiction is valid ; if the conceptions of expe- 
rience contain inner contradictions, this is not the fault of the 
objective world, but of the representing subject who must 
rectif}^ his false apprehension b}^ remodelling these concep- 
tions, and eliminating the contradiction. Herbart thus charges 
the philosophy of Hegel with empiricism, because it receives 
from experience these contradictory conceptions unchanged, 
and not only regards these as established, but even goes so 
far as to metamorphose logic on their account, and this sim- 
ply because the}- are given in experience, though theu* con- 
tradictor}' nature is clearl}' seen. Hegel and Herbart stand 
related to each other as Heraclitus and Parmenides (c/. Sects. 
VI. and VII.). 

4. From this point Herbart attains his " reals " as follows : 
The discover}" of contradictions, he says, in all our concep- 
tions of experience, might lead us to absolute scepticism, and 
to despair of the truth. But here we remember that if the 
existence of every thing real be denied, then phenomena, sen- 
sation, representation, and thought itself would be destroyed. 
AVe may, therefore, assume that the indications of reality in- 
crease with the increase of appearance. We cannot, indeed, 



HEEBABT. 349 

ascribe to the given any true and essential being per se ; it is 
not per se alone, but onl}' on, or in, or thi'ough something other. 
True being is an absolute being, which as such excludes all 
relativity and dependence ; it is absolute position, which it is 
not for us first to posit, but only to recognize. In so far as 
this being is attributed to any thing, this latter possesses 
reality. True being is, therefore, ever a quale, a something 
which is considered as being. In order now that this posited 
may correspond to the conditions which lie in the conception 
of absolute position, the icJiat of the real must be thought (a) 
as absolutel}' positive or afiu'mative, i.e., without any nega- 
tion or limitation, which might destroy its absoluteness ; (6) 
as absolutely simple, i.e., in no wa}', as a multipUcit}^ or ad- 
mitting of inner antitheses ; (c) as undetermined b}' any con- 
ceptions of magnitude, i.e., not as a quantum which may be 
divided and extended in time and space ; hence, also, not as 
a continuous magnitude or continuit}'. But we must never 
forget that this being or this absolute reality is not simply 
something thought, but is something independent and resting 
on itself, and hence it is simpl}' to be recognized by thought. 
The conception of this being lies at the basis of all Herbart's 
metaphj'sic. Take an example of this. The first problem to 
be solved in metaphj'sics is the problem of inherence, or the 
thing with its qualities. Every perceptible thing presents 
itself to the senses as a complex of several characteristics. 
But aU the attributes of a thing which are given in perception 
are relative. We say, e.g., that sound is a property of a cer- 
tain bod}'. It sounds — but it cannot do this without air ; 
what now becomes of this property- in a space without ah' ? 
Again, we say that a body is heavy, but it is so onl}^ on the 
earth. Or again, that a body is colored, but light is neces- 
sary for this ; what now becomes of such a propert}" in dark- 
ness ? Still farther, a multiplicity of properties is incompati- 
ble with the unity of an object. K you ask wJiat is this thing, 
you are answered with the sum of its characteristics ; it is 
soft, white, fuU-sounding, heavy, — but your question was of 



350 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

one, not of man}'. The answer onl}' affirms what the thing 
has, not what it is. Moreover, the list of characteristics is 
alwa3-s incomplete. The what of a thing can therefore lie 
neither in the individual given properties, nor in their unity. 
In determining what a thing is, we have only this answer re- 
maining, viz., the thing is that unknown, which we must posit 
before we can posit any thing as Ijing in the given properties ; 
in a word, it is the substance. For if, in order to see what 
the thing purely- and essentially^ is, we take away the charac- 
teristics which it may have, we find that nothing more remains, 
and we perceive that what we considered as the real thing was 
only a complex of characteristics, and the union of these in 
one whole. But since every appearance indicates a definite 
realit}^, and since there must be as much reality as there is 
appearance, we have to consider the realit}', which lies at the 
basis of the thing with its quahties, as a complex of many 
simple substances or monads, and whose quality is different 
in diiTerent instances. When our experience has led us to a 
repeated grouping together of these monads, we call the 
group a thing. Let us now briefl}" look at that modification 
of the fundamental conceptions of metaph3'sic which is in- 
volved in this fundamental conception of realit3^ First, 
there is the conception of causalit}', which cannot be main- 
tained in its ordinary form. All that we can perceive in the 
act is succession in time, and not the necessary connection of 
cause with eff"ect. The cause itself can be neither transcen- 
dent nor immanent ; it cannot be transcendent, because a real 
influence of one real thing upon another, contradicts the con- 
ception of absolute realit}- ; nor immanent, for then the sub- 
stance must be thought as one with its qualities, which con- 
tradicts the results of the investigation concerning a thing 
with its qualities. We can just as little find in the conception 
of the real an answer to the question, how one determinate 
being can be l)rought into contact with another, for the real 
is the absolute unchangeable. We can therefore onl^' explain 
the conception of causality on the ground that the different 



HEEBABT. 351 

reals which lie at the basis of the characteristics are con- 
ceived, each one for itself, as cause of the phenomenon, there 
being just as many causes as there are phenomena. The 
problem of change is intimately connected with the concep- 
tion of cause. Since, however, according to Herbart, there 
is no inner change, no self-determination, no becoming and 
no life ; since the monads are, and remain in themselves un- 
changeable, they do not become different in respect of quaht}^, 
but they are originally different one from another, and each 
one exhibits its quahty without ever any change. The problem 
of change can thus only be solved through the theory of the 
disturbances and self-preservations of these essences. But 
if that which we call not simply an apparent but an actual 
event, in the essence of the monads, may be reduced to a 
"self-preservation," as the last gleam of activit}^ and life, 
still we have the question ever remaining, how to explain 
the appearance of change. For this it is necessar}' to bring 
in two auxiliarj' conceptions ; first, that of accidental views, 
and second, that of intellectual spaces. The accidental 
views, an expression taken from mathematics, signify, in 
reference to the problem before us this much, viz., one and 
the same conception ma}" often be considered in very differ- 
ent relations to different essences without the slightest change 
in its own nature, e.g.^ a straight line may be considered as 
radius or as tangent, and a tone as harmonious or discordant. 
B}^ help of these accidental views, we may now regard that 
which actually results in the monad, when other monads, op- 
posite in quality, come in contact with it, as on the one side 
an actual occurrence, though on the other side, no actual 
change can be imputed to the original condition of the mo- 
nads (a gray color, e.gr., seems comparatively white b}' the 
side of black, and comparatively^ black b}' the side of wliite, 
without changing at all its quality) . A further auxiliar}" con- 
ception is that of intellectual space, which arises when we 
must consider these essences together as well as not together. 
By means of this conception we can eliminate the contradic- 



852 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY* 

tions from the conception of movement. Lastly, it can be 
seen that the conception of matter and that of the Ego (in 
ps3Thologicall3^ explaining which, the rest of the metaphj'sic 
is occupied) are, like the preceding ones, no less contradic- 
tor}^ in themselves than they are irreconcilable with the fun- 
damental conception of the real ; for neither can an extended 
being, like matter, be formed out of spaceless monads, — and 
with matter, therefore, fall also the ordinary (apparent) con- 
ceptions of space and time, — nor can we admit, without 
transformation, the conception of the Ego, since it exhibits 
the contradictory conception of a thing with many and chang- 
ing qualities (conditions, powers, faculties, &c.). 

We are reminded by Herbart's ''' reals'' of the theoiy of the 
atomists (cf. Sect. IX. 2) , of the Eleatic theory of being (c/. 
Sect. VI.), and of Leibnitz's monadolog}^ His reals how- 
ever are distinguished from the atoms by not possessing un- 
penetrability. The monads of Herbart may be just as well 
conceived in the same space as a mathematical point may be 
conceived as co-existing with another in the same place. In 
this respect the "real" of Herbart has a far greater similarity 
to the "one" of the Eleatics. Both are simple, and to be 
conceived in intellectual spaces, but the essential difference 
is, that Herbart's substances are not only numerically distinct 
but are even opposed in qualit3^ Herbart's simple quantities 
have already' been compared to the monads of Leibnitz ; but 
these latter have essentially a power of representation ; they 
are beings with inner states, while, according to Herbart, 
representation belongs to the real itself just as little as every 
other state. 

5. The Philosophy of Nature and Psychology are connected 
with metaphj'sic. In the first he shows how the most impor- 
tant phenomena of nature, attraction, repulsion, chemical affin- 
ity, etc., are explicable through his metaphysic, and through 
it alone. The second treats of the soul, but first of all of the 
Ego. The Ego is primarily' a metaphysical problem, since it 
involves contradictions. It is also a psj'chological problem. 



HEEBART. 353 

since its origination is to be explained. "VYe must, therefore, 
first consider those contradictions which are involved in the 
identit}' of subject and object. The subject posits itself and 
is therefore itself object. But this posited object is nothing 
other than the positing subject. Thus the Ego is, as Fichte 
says, subject-object, and, as such, full of the hardest contra- 
dictions, for subject and object can never be affirmed as one 
and the same without contradiction. But now since the Ego 
is given it cannot be rejected, but must be purified from its 
contradictions. This occurs whenever the Ego is conceived 
as that which represents, and the different sensations, 
thoughts, &c., are embraced under the common conception of 
changing appearance. The solution of this problem is 
similar to that of inherence. As in the latter problem the 
thing was apprehended as a complex of as many reals as it 
has qualities, just so here the Ego ; but with the Ego, inner 
states and representations correspond to its quahties. Thus 
that which we are accustomed to name Ego is nothing other 
than the soul. The soul as a monad, as absolutely being, is 
therefore simple, eternal, indissoluble, from which we may 
conclude its eternal existence. From this standpoint Her- 
bart combats the ordinary course of psychology which ascribes 
certain powers and faculties to the soul. That which occurs 
in the soul is nothing other than self-preservation, which 
can orAy be manifold and changing in opposition to other 
reals. The causes of its changing states are therefore these 
other reals, which come variously in conflict with the soul- 
monad, and thus produce that apparently infinite manifold- 
ness of sensations, representations, and affections. This 
theory of self-presers^ation lies at the basis of all Herbart's 
psj'chology. That which psychology ordinaril}^ calls feeling, 
thinking, representing, &c., are only specific differences in 
the self-preservation of the soul ; they indicate no proper con- 
dition of the inner reahty itself, but only relations between 
the reals, relations, which, coming up together at the same 
time from different sides, are partly suppressed, partly in- 



354 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

tensified, and parti}' modified. Consciousness is the sum of 
those relations in which the soul stands to other essences. 
But the relations to objects, and hence to the representations 
corresponding to these, are not all equall}' definite ; one sup- 
presses, restricts, and obscures another until a relation of 
equilibrium results which can be calculated according to the 
laws of statics. But the suppressed representations do not 
wholly disappear, but waiting on the threshold of conscious- 
ness for the favourable moment when they shall be permitted 
again to arise, the}" join themselves with kindred representa- 
tions, and press forward with united energies. This move- 
ment of the representations (sketched in a masterly manner 
b}' Herbart) may be calculated according to the rules of 
mathematics, and this is Herbart's well-known application of 
mathematics to empirical psj'chology. The representations 
which were pressed back, which wait on the threshold of con- 
sciousness and only work in the darkness, and of which we 
are only half conscious, are feelings. The}^ express them- 
selves as desires, according as their struggle outward is more 
or less successful. Desire becomes will when united with the 
hope of success. The will is no separate faculty of the mind 
but consists only in the relation of the dominant representa- 
tions to the others. The strength of decision and the character 
of a man depend upon the constant presence in the conscious- 
ness of a certain number of representations, while other rep- 
resentations are weakened, or denied an entrance over the 
threshold of consciousness. 

G. The Importance of HerharVs Philosophy. — Herbart's 
philosophy is important mainly for its metaphysic and ps}"- 
chology. In the other spheres and activities of the human 
mind, e.r/., rights, morality, the state, art, religion, his phi- 
losoph}' is mostl}' barren of results, and though there are not 
wanting here striking observations, yet these have no connec- 
tion with the speculative principles of the S3'6tem. Herbart 
carefully isolates the different philosophical sciences, distin- 
guishing especially and in the strictest manner between theo- 



SCHELLING. 355 

retical and practical philosophy. He charges the effort after 
unity in philosophy, with occasioning the greatest errors ; 
for logical, metaphysical, and aesthetic forms are entirely di- 
verse. Ethics and aesthetics have to do with objects in which 
an immediate evidence appears, but this is foreign to the 
whole nature of metaphj^sic, which can only gain its knowl- 
edge by the removal of errors. -Esthetic judgments on which 
practical philosophy rests, are independent of the reahty of 
any object, and appear with immediate certainty in the midst 
of the strongest metaphysical doubts. The elements of mor- 
als, says Herbart, are pleasing and displeasing relations of 
the will. He thus grounds the whole practical philosophy 
upon aesthetic judgments. The aesthetic judgment is an in- 
voluntar}^ and immediate judgment, which attaches to certain 
objects, without proof, the predicates of goodness and bad- 
ness. — In this lies the greatest difference between Herbart 
and Kant. 

We may characterize, on the whole, the philosophy of Her- 
bart as a development of the monadology of Leibnitz, full of 
enduring acuteness, but without any inner fruitfulness or 
capacity of development. 



SECTION XLIII. 

SCHELLING. 

ScHELLiNG sprang from Fichte. We may pass on to an 
exposition of his philosophy without any farther introduction, 
since that which it derives from Fichte forms a part of its 
historical development, and will therefore be treated of as 
this latter is unfolded. 

Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph SchelUng was born at Leonberg, 
in Wiirtemberg, Jan. 27, 1775. With a very precocious 



356 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

development, he entered the theological semmary at Tubin- 
gen in his sixteenth year, and devoted himself partly to 
philolog}^ and m3'tholog3^ but especially to Kant's philoso- 
ph}^ During his course as a student, he was in personal 
connection with Holderlin and Hegel. Schelling came before 
the world as an author very early. In 1792 appeared his 
graduating thesis on the third chapter of Genesis, in which 
he gave an interesting philosophical significance to the Mo- 
saic account of the Fall. In the following year, 1793, he 
published in Paulus' Memorabilia an essay of a kindred na- 
ture " On the Myths and Philosophemes of the Ancient World.'' 
To the last j'car of his abode at Tubingen belong the two 
philosophical writings: " On the Possibility of a Form for 
Philosophy as such" and " On the Ego as a Principle of 
Philosophy^ or on the Unconditioned in Human Knoidedge." 
After completing his university studies, Schelling went to 
Leipsic as tutor to the Baron von Eiedesel, but soon after- 
wards repaired to Jena, where he became the pupil and co- 
laborer of Fi elite. After Fichte's departure from Jena, he 
became himself, 1798, teacher of philosophy there, and now 
began, removing himself from Fichte's standpoint, to develop 
more and more his own peculiar views. He published in 
Jena i\\Q Journal of Speculative Physics, and also in company 
with Hegel, The Critical Journal of Philosophy. In the j'ear 
1803 he went to Wiirzburg as professor ordinarius of philoso- 
ph}^ In 1807 he repaired to Munich as member ordinarius 
of the newl3^-established academy of sciences there. The 3^ear 
after he became general secretary of the Academy of the 
Plastic Arts, and subsequentl}^ when the university professor- 
ship was established at Munich, he became its incumbent. 
After the death of Jacobi, he was chosen president of the 
Munich Acadcm3\ In 1841 he removed to Berlin, where 
he sometimes held lectures particularly on the ^^ Philosophy 
of Mythology'' and on ^^ Revelation.'" During the last ten 
3'ears of his life Schelling published nothing of importance. 
The publication of his complete works was begun soon after 



SCHELLING. 357 

his death (which occurred at Ragaz on the 20th of August, 
1854) and completed in 1861. Ten volumes comprise his 
earlier writings, and four others, his later prelections. Schel- 
hng's philosophy is no completed s^'stem of which his separate 
works are the constituent elements ; but, like Plato's, it has a 
historical development, a course of formative steps which the 
philosopher passed through in his own speculation. Instead 
of S3'stematicall3' elaborating the separate sciences from the 
standpoint of his fundamental principle, Schelhng went back 
repeatedl}' to the beginning, seeking ever for new foundations 
and new standpoints, connecting these for the most part (like 
Plato) with some antecedent philosophemes (Fichte, Spinoza, 
Neo-Platonlsm, Leibnitz, Jacob Boehme, Gnosticism), which 
one after another he attempted to interweave with his sj-s- 
tem. We must modif}' accordingly our exposition of Schel- 
ling's Philosophy, and take up its different periods, in ac- 
cordance with the succession of the different groups of his 
writings. 

1. First Period. Schelling's Derivation from Fichte. 

Schelling's starting-point w^as Fichte, whom he openly fol- 
lowed in his earliest writings. In his essay, " On the Possi- 
bility of a Form of Pliilosopliy ^'' he shows the necessity of 
that supreme principle which Fichte had first propounded. 
In his essa}', " Oyi the Ego" ScheUing shows that the ulti- 
mate ground of our knowledge can lie only in the Ego, and 
hence that every true philosophy must be idealism. If our 
knowledge is to possess realit}^, there must be one point in 
which ideality and reality, thought and being, can identically 
coincide ; and if outside of our knowledge there were some- 
thing higher which conditioned it, if itself were not the high- 
est, then it could not be absolute. Fichte regarded this essay 
as a commentary on his Theory of Knowledge; yet it con- 
tains already indications of Schelling's subsequent standpoint, 
in its express affirmation of the unity of all knowledge, the 
necessity that in the end all the different sciences shall become 
merged into one. In the " Letters on Dogmatism and Criti- 



358 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

cism" (1795), Schelling combated the notions of those Kan- 
tians who had left the critical and idealistic standpoint of 
their master, and fallen back again into the old dogmatism. 
It was also on the standpoint of Fichte that Schelling pub- 
lished in Niethammer's and Fichte's Journal (1797-98), a 
series of articles, in which he reviewed the philosophical lit- 
erature of the da}'. Here he begins to turn his attention to- 
wards a philosophical deduction of nature, though in this he 
was still wholly Fichtian, since he attempted to deduce nature 
from the essence of the Ego. In the essay which was com- 
posed soon after, and entitled '•'' Ideas for a Philosophy of 
Nature" 1797, and the one " On the World-soid,'* 1798, he 
gradually unfolded more clearly his views. The chief points 
which are brought out in the three last-named essaj^s are the 
following : The origin of the conception of matter lies in the 
nature of human intuition. Mind is the union of an unhmited 
and a limiting energy. If there were no limit to the mind, 
consciousness would be just as impossible as it would be if 
the mind were totally and absolutel}^ limited. Feeling, per- 
ception, and knowledge are conceivable only on the suppo- 
sition that the energj^ which strives for the unlimited becomes 
limited through an opposing force, and that this latter be- 
comes itself freed from its limitations. Mind consists actual- 
iter only in the antagonism of these two energies, and hence 
only in their ever approximate or relative unit}'. Just so is it 
in nature. The absolute ^?'ims is not matter, as such, but the 
forces of which it is the unity. Matter is only to be appre- 
hended as the continual product of attraction and repulsion ; 
it is not, therefore, a mere inert mass, as we are apt to repre- 
sent it, but it is essentially force. But force in the material 
is as it were immaterial. Force in nature may be compared 
with mind. Since now mind exhibits precisely the same con- 
flict of opposite forces as does matter, we must unite the two 
in a higher identity. But the organ of the mind for appre- 
hending nature is the intuition which takes, as object of the 
external sense, the space which has been filled and limited by 



SCHELLIXG. 359 

the attracting and repelling forces. Thus Schelling was led 
to the conclusion that the same absolute appears in nature as 
in mind, and that the harmony of these is something more 
than a thought in reference to them. "Or if you affirm that 
we only carry over such an idea to nature, then have 3'ou 
utterly failed to apprehend what, for us, nature is and should 
be. For our view of nature is not that it accidentally coin- 
cides with the laws of our mind, — (perhaps through the me- 
diation of a thu'd) , — but that it necessaril}^ and originall}' not 
onl}^ expresses, but itself realizes, the laws of our mind, and 
that it is nature, and is called such onl}- in so far as it does 
this." "Nature should be visible mind, and mind imdsible 
nature. Here, therefore, in the absolute identity of the mind 
idthin us, and nature tvitJioiit us, must the problem : how it is 
possible for a natm-e outside of us to be, find its solution. 
This thought, that nature or matter is just as much the actual 
unity of an attracting and a repelling force, as mind is the 
unit}' of an unlimited and a limiting tendenc}', and that the 
repelling force in matter corresponds to the positive or un- 
limited activity of the mind, while the attracting force cor- 
responds to the mind's negative or limiting activity, — this 
idealistic deduction of matter from the essence of the Ego, 
is the dominant thought in all that Schelling wrote upon the 
philosophy of natm'e during this period. Nature thus appears 
as the counterpart of mind, which mind itself produces, in 
order to return, by means of it, to pure self- intuition, to self- 
consciousness. Hence we have the successive stages of 
nature, in which all the stations of the mind in its way to self- 
consciousness are externall}' established. It is especiall}' in 
the organic world that the mind can behold its own self-pro- 
duction. Hence, in every thing organic there is something 
symbolical, every plant bears some featm-e of the soul. The 
chief characteristics of organic growth, — the self- forming 
process from within outwards, the conformit}^ to some end, 
the variet}' of interpenetration of form and matter, — are 
equally characteristic of the mind. Since now there exists 



360 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

in our mind an endless striving to organize itself, so there 
must also be manifested in the external world a universal 
tendenc}' to organization. The whole universe ma}^ thus be 
called a kind of organization which has developed itself from 
a centre, rising ever from a lower to a higher stage. From 
this point of view, it must be the chief effort of the philoso- 
ph}' of nature to unif}^ that life of nature which physical sci- 
ence has broken up into an innumerable variety of forces. 
Many have needlessly troubled themselves, to show how very 
different is the working of heat and electricit}^, for every one 
knows this who has ever seen or heard of the two. But the 
mind strives after unity in the system of its. knowledge ; it 
will not endure that there should be pressed upon it a sep- 
arate principle for every single phenomenon, and it will only 
believe that it sees nature where it can discover the greatest 
simplicity of laws in the gTcatest multiplicity of phenomena, 
and the highest frugality of means in the highest prodigality 
of effects. Therefore, every thought, even that which is now 
rough and crude, merits attention so soon as it tends towards 
the simplifying of principles, and if it serves no other end, it 
at least strengthens the impulse to investigate and trace out 
the hidden process of nature." The special tendency of the 
scientific investigation of nature which prevailed at that time, 
was to make a duality of forces the predominant element in 
the life of nature. In mechanics, the Kantian' theory of the 
opposition of attraction and repulsion was adopted ; in chem- 
istr}', by apprehending electricity as positive and negative, 
its phenomena were brought near those of magnetism ; in 
physiology there was the opposition of irritability and sensi- 
bilit}', etc. In opposition to these dualities, Schelling now 
insisted upon the unity of all opposites, the unity of all 
dualities ; and this not simply as an abstract unity, but as a 
concrete idcntit}-, as the harmonious cooperation of the 
heterogeneous. The world is the actual unity of a positive 
and a negative principle, "and these two conflicting forces 
taken together, or represented in their conflict, lead to the 



SCHELLING. 361 

idea of an organizing principle which makes of the world a 
system, in other words, to the idea of a world-soul." 

In his above-cited essay on ^'■the world-soul^'' Schelling 
makes a great advance toward apprehending nature as en- 
tirel}' autonomic. In the world-soul nature has a peculiar 
principle which dwells within it, and works intelligently. In 
this way the objective world, the independent life of nature, 
was recognized in a manner which the logical idealism of 
Fichte would not permit. Schelling proceeded still farther in 
this direction, and distinguished definitel}^, as the two sides 
of philosoph}', the philosoph}^ of nature and transcendental 
pliilosoph3\ By placing a philosophy of nature by the side 
of idealism, Schelling passed decidedl}^ beyond the standpoint 
of the Theory of Knoicleclge, and we thus enter a second sta- 
dium of his philosophizing, though his method still remained 
that of Fichte, and he continued to believe that he was spec- 
ulating in the spirit of the Theory of Knoioledge. 

II. Second Period. Standpoint of the Distinction 

BETWEEN THE PHILOSOPHY OF NaTURE AND OF MiND. 

This standpoint of Schelling is chiefl}^ developed in the fol- 
lowing works : '^Fh'st Draft of a System of the Philosophy 
of Nature" 1799 ; an introduction to this, 1799 ; articles in 
the ''' Journal of Speculative Physics^'' 1800, 1801 ; ''System 
of Transcendental Idecdism" 1800. Schelling distinguishes 
the two sides of philosophy as follows : All knowledge rests 
upon the agreement of a subject with an object. That which 
is simpl}' objective is nature, and that which is simply sub- 
jective is the Ego or intelligence. There are two possible 
wa3-s of uniting these two sides : we ma}' either make nature 
first, and inquire how it is that intelligence is associated with 
it. I.e., we may attempt to resolve it into pure determinations 
of thought (philosophy of nature) ; or we may make the sub- 
ject first, and inquire how objects proceed from the subject 
(transcendental philosophy) . The end of all philosophy must 
be to make either an intelligence out of nature, or a nature 

out of intelhgence. As transcendental pliilosophy- has to 
16 



362 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

subordinate the real to the ideal, so must the philosoph}' of 
nature attempt to explain the ideal fi'om the real. Both, 
however, are onty the two poles of one and the same knowl- 
edge which reciprocal!}^ attract each other ; hence, if we start 
from either pole, we are necessarily drawn towards the other. 

1. The Philosophy of Nature. — To philosophize con- 
cerning nature is, in a certain sense, to create nature, — to 
raise it from the dead mechanism in which it had seemed con- 
fined, to inspire it with freedom, and enable it to realize its 
own free development. And what, then, is matter, other 
than mind which has become extinct? According to this 
view, since nature is only the visible organism of our under- 
standing, it can produce nothing but what is conformable to 
law and design. But 3'ou radicall}^ destroy every idea of na- 
ture just so soon as 3'ou allow its design to have come to it 
from without, from the understanding of some being external 
to it. The complete exhibition of the immanence of the in- 
tellectual world in the laws and forms of the phenomenal 
world, and, on the other hand, the complete comprehension 
of these laws and forms b}' means of the intellectual world, 
and therefore the exhibition of the identitj^ of nature with the 
ideal world, is the work of the philosophy of nature. Imme- 
diate experience is indeed its starting-point ; we know origi- 
nally nothing except through experience ; but just as soon as 
I gain an insight into the inner necessity of a principle of ex- 
perience, it becomes a principle a priori. The philosophy of 
nature is empiricism extended until it becomes absolute. 

Schelling expresses himself as follows, concerning the fun- 
damental principles of a philosoph}' of nature. Nature is as 
it were an oscillation between productivity and product, which 
is always passing over into definite forms and products, just 
as it is always productively passing beyond these. This os- 
cillation indicates a duality of principles, through which 
nature is held in a constant activity, and hindered from ex- 
hausting itself in its products. A universal duality is thus 
the principle of every explanation of nature ; it is the first 



SCHELLIXG. 363 

principle of a philosopMc theory of nature, to reduce all 
nature to polarit}^ and dualism. On the other hand, the object 
of all our contemplation of nature is to know that absolute 
unity which comprehends the whole, but which suffers only 
one side of itself to be known in nature. Nature is, as it 
were, the instrument through which this absolute unity ex- 
ternally executes and actualizes that which is prefigured in 
the absolute understanding. The whole absolute is therefore 
cognizable in nature, though phenomenal nature only exhibits 
in a succession, and produces in an endless development, 
that which the true or real nature eternally possesses. Schel- 
ling treats of the philosophy of nature, in three divisions : 

(1) the proof that nature, in its original products, is organic; 

(2) the conditions of an inorganic nature ; (3) the reciprocal 
determination of organic and inorganic nature. 

(1) Organic nature Schelling deduces thus : Nature abso- 
lutely apprehended is nothing other than infinite activity, 
infinite productivity. If this were unhindered in the mani- 
festation of itself, it would at once, with infinite celerity, 
produce an absolute product, which would aflTord no expla- 
nation of empirical nature. If this latter is to be explained 
— if there are to be finite products, we must consider the 
productive activity of natm-e as restrained b}^ an opposite, a 
retarding activity, which lies in natm^e itself. Thus arises 
a series of finite products. But since the absolute produc- 
tivit}' of nature tends towards an absolute product, these 
individual products are onl}^ phenomenal ones, beyond each 
one of which nature herself advances, in order to satisfy the 
absoluteness of her inner productivity through an infinite 
series of individual products. In this eternal producing of 
finite products, nature shows itself as a living antagonism 
of two opposite forces, a productive and a retarding ten- 
denc3\ And, indeed, the operation of this latter is infinitely- 
manifold ; the original productive impulse of nature has not 
o\\\y to combat a simple restraint, but it must struggle with 
an infinit}' of reactions, which maj- be called original quali- 



o6-i A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

ties. Hence eveiy organic being is the permanent expres- 
sion of a conflict of reciprocally cIestro3ing and limiting 
actions of nature. And from this, viz., from the original 
limitation and infinite restraint of the formative impulse of 
nature, we see the reason wli}^ every organism, instead of 
attaining to an absolute product, only reproduces itself ad 
infinitum. Upon this rests the special significance for the 
organic world, of the distinction of sex. The distinction of 
sex fixes the organic products of nature, it restrains them 
within their own processes of development, and suffers them 
onl}' to produce their like. But in this production nature 
has no regard for the individual, but only for the species. 
The individual is contrary to nature ; nature desires the 
absolute, and its constant effort is to exhibit this. Individual 
products, therefore, in which the activitj'^ of nature is arrested, 
can onty be regarded as abortive attempts to represent the 
absolute. Hence the individual must be the means, and the 
species the end of nature. Just so soon as the species is 
secured, nature abandons the individuals and labors for their 
destruction. SchelHng divides the d3'namic gradation of 
organic nature according to the three grand functions of an 
organism : (a) Formative impulse (reproductive energy) ; 
(b) Irritability ; (c) Sensibility. Highest in rank are those 
organisms in which sensibility has the preponderance over 
irritability ; next are those in which irritabilit}^ preponderates ; 
and lastl}', those in which reproduction first comes out in its 
entire perfection, while sensibility and irritability are almost 
extinct. Yet these three powers are interwoven together in 
all nature, and hence there is but one organization, descend- 
ing through all nature from man to the plant. 

(2) Inorganic nature is the antithesis to organic. The 
existence and essence of inorganic nature are conditioned 
through the existence and essence of organic nature. While 
the forces of organic nature arc productive, those of inorganic 
nature are not productive. Wliilc organic nature aims only 
to estabhsh the species, inorganic nature regards only the 



SCHELLING. 365 

individual, and offers no reproduction of the species through 
the individual. It consists in a great multitude of materials, 
which have no other connection than that of externalit}' and 
juxtaposition. In a word, inorganic nature is simply a mass 
held together by some external cause as gravity. Yet it, like 
organic nature, has its gradations. The power of reproduc- 
tion in the latter has its counterpart in the chemical processes 
of the former {e.g.^ combustion) ; that which in the one case 
is irritability, in the other is electricity ; and sensibiht}', which 
is the highest stage of organic life, corresponds to magnetism, 
the highest stage of the inorganic. 

(3) The reciprocal determination of the organic and inor- 
ganic world is made clear by what has akeady been said. 
The result to which CA^ery genuine philosophy of nature must 
come, is that the distinction between organic and inorganic 
nature is only in nature as object, and that nature, as origi- 
nall}' productive, transcends both. If the functions of an 
organism are only possible on the condition that a definite 
external world and an organic world exist, then must the 
external world and the organic world have a common origin. 
This can be explained only on the gTound that inorganic na- 
ture presupposes in order to its existence a higher dj^namical 
order of things, to which it is subject. There must be a 
third, which can reunite organic and inorganic nature ; which 
can be a medium, maintaining the continuit}^ of the two. 
Both must be identified in some ultimate cause, through 
which, as through one common soul of nature (world-soul) , 
both the organic and inorganic, i.e., universal nature, is ani- 
mated ; in some common principle, which, fluctuating be- 
tween inorganic and organic nature, and maintaining the 
continuit}' of the two, contains the first cause of all changes 
in the one, and the ultimate gi'ound of all activit}^ in the 
other. We have here the idea of a universal organism. That 
it is one and the same organization which unites in one the 
organic and inorganic world would appear from what has al- 
ready been said of the parallel gradations of the two worlds. 



366 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

That which in universal nature is the cause of magnetism, 
is in organic nature tlie cause of sensibihty, and the latter is 
only a higher potenc}' of the former. Just as in the organic 
world through sensibilit}", so in universal nature through 
magnetism, there arises a dualit}^ from identit}^ In this wa}^ 
organic nature appears only as a higher stage of the inorganic ; 
the ver}^ same dualism which is seen in magnetic polarity, 
electrical phenomena, and chemical differences, display's it- 
self also in the organic world. 

2. Transcendental Philosophy. — Transcendental phi- 
losophy is the philosophy of nature become subjective. The 
entire series of successive stages which have been described 
as exhibited in the object, is now repeated as a successive de- 
velopment of the beholding subject. It is the peculiarity of 
transcendental idealism, as we are told in the preface, that so 
soon as it is once admitted, it requires that the origin of all 
knowledge shall be sought for anew ; that what has long been 
considered as established truth should be subjected to a new 
examination ; and if it undergoes this examination success- 
full}^, it must at least appear under a new character and form. 
All parts of philosophy must be exhibited in one continuit}^, 
and the whole of philosophy must be regarded as the ad- 
vancing histor}^ of consciousness, which can use only as me- 
morial or document that which is laid down in experience. 
The exhibition of this connection is properly a succession of 
intuitions through which the Ego raises itself to consciousness 
in the highest potency. Neither transcendental philosophy 
nor the philosoph}^ of nature can alone represent the paral- 
lelism between nature and intelligence ; but, in order to this, 
both sciences must be united, the one being considered as a 
necessary- counterpart to the other. The subdivision of 
transcendental philosophy" follows from its problem, to seek 
anew the origin of all knowledge, and to subject to a new 
examination ever}' prejudgment and every thing which had 
been held to be established truth. The prejudgments of the 
common understanding are principally two : (1) That a world 



J 



SCHELLING. 367 

of objects exists independent of, and outside of, ourselves, 
which are presented to us just as they are. To explain this 
prejudgment, is the problem of the first part of the trans- 
cendental philosophy {theoretical philosophy) . (2) That we 
can produce an effect upon the objective world in accordance 
with representations which arise freely within us. The solu- 
tion of this problem is practical philosophy. But, with these 
two problems we find om^selves entangled, (3) in a contradic- 
tion. How is it possible that our thought should ever rule 
over the world of sense, if representation is conditioned in its 
origin by the objective ? And conversel}' : how is harmony 
between our intellect and external things possible, if things 
are to be determined according to conceptions ? The solution 
of this problem, which is the highest of transcendental 
philosophy, is the answer to the question : How can repre- 
sentations be conceived as directing themselves according to 
objects, and at the same time objects be conceived as direct- 
ing themselves according to representations? This is only 
conceivable on the ground that the activity thi'ough which the 
objective world is produced, is originally identical with that 
which manifests itself in the will, hence only on the ground 
that the same activity which in volition is consciousl}' produc- 
tive, is unconsciously productive in the production of the 
external world. To show this identit}^ of conscious and un- 
conscious activit}^, is the problem of the third part of trans- 
cendental philosoph}', or the science of design in nature and 
of art. The three parts of the transcendental philosophy 
coiTespond thus entirelj^ to the three critiques of Kant. 

(1) Theoretical p)hilosophy starts from the highest princi- 
ple of knowledge, the self-consciousness, and from this point 
develops the histor}' of self-consciousness, according to its 
most prominent epochs and stages, viz., sensation, intuition, 
productive intuition (which produces matter) , — outer and 
inner intuition (from which space and time, and all Kant's 
categories may be derived), abstraction (by which the in- 
telligence distinguishes itself from its products) , — absolute 



368 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

abstraction, or absolute act of will. With the act of the will 
there is spread before us, — 

(2) The Field of Practical Philosophy. — In practical 
philosoph}' the Ego is no longer intuitive, i.e., unconscious, 
but is conscioush^ productive, i.e., reahzing. As from the 
original act of self-consciousness nature in its entiret}^ de- 
velops itself, so from the second act, or the act of free self- 
detennination, there is produced a second nature, to deduce 
which is the object of practical philosoph}'. In his exposition 
of practical philosoph}', Schelling follows almost wholty the 
theor3'of Fichte, but closes this section with some remarkable 
expressions respecting the philosoph}" of history, which show 
an advance bej'ond Fichte's position. The moral order of 
the world is not enough to secure to the free action of intel- 
ligence its legitimate results. For the moral order is itself 
the product of man}' acting subjects, and cannot exist if these 
subjects act contrary to the moral law. Nothing so subjec- 
tive as the moral order of the world, nor 3'et the mere con- 
formity to law in objective nature, can secure to free activit}' 
its adequate results, and effect that out of the completely 
lawless play of the freedom of individuals there should, in the 
end, arise for all free beings an objective, rational, and har- 
monious result. A principle superior at once to both subject 
and object must be the invisible root of that harmon}' between 
the two which is necessar}' for action. This superior princi- 
ple is the Absolute, which is neither subject nor object,, but 
the common root and uniting identit}- of the two. The free 
action of rational beings as it displa3's itself in that harmony 
of subjective and objective being which is eternally realized 
through the absolute, is history. Histor}', therefore, is noth- 
ing but the continual realization of the harmon}' of the sub- 
jective and objective which is ever becoming more and more 
complete ; the gradual revelation and manifestation of the 
absolute. In this revelation there are three periods. The 
first is that in which the governing power manifests itself as 
fate, as blind force, subduing freedom, and coldl}' and uncon- 



SCHELLIXG. 369 

sciously destroying whatever is greatest and noblest. This is 
the tragic period of history, a period of splendor, but also of 
the disappearance of the wonders of the old world with its 
empires and of the noblest humanity that ever flourished. 
The second i^eriod is that in which this blind force discloses 
itself as nature, and the obscure law of necessity- is trans- 
formed into a clear law of nature which compels freedom and 
unrestrained caprice to subserve a plan of universal culture, 
leading in the end to the unity of nations and a universal 
state. This period appears to begin with the extension of 
the great Roman republic. The third period is that in which 
what in the earlier periods appeared as fate and nature de- 
velops itself as providence, and even the dominion of " fate " 
and " nature" is represented as providence in its first incom- 
plete manifestation. "When this period will begin we cannot 
sa3\ But when this period is, God is. 

(3) Philosophy of Art. — The problem of transcendental 
philosophy' is to harmonize the subjective and the objective. 
In history, with which practical philosoph}- closes, the identity 
of the two is not exhibited, but only approximated in an in- 
finite progi'ess. But now the Ego must attain a position 
where it can actually behold this identity, which constitutes 
its inner essence. If now all conscious activity exhibits de- 
sign, then a conscious and unconscious acti\ity can only coin- 
cide in a product, which, though it exhibits design, was j'et 
produced Tsithout design. Such a product is nature ; we 
have here the principle of all teleology^ in which alone the 
solution of the given problem can be sought. The peculiarit}^ 
of nature is this, viz., that though it exhibits itself as nothing 
but a blind mechanism, it 3'et displays design, and represents 
an identit}' of the conscious subjective and the unconscious 
objective activit}' ; in it the Ego beholds its own most pecu- 
liar essence, which consists alone in this identit3^ But in na- 
ture the Ego beholds this identity, as something pm-ety 
objective, as existing only externally to it ; it must also be 
enabled to perceive it as a somewhat whose principle lies 



370 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

within the Ego itself. This perception is the ai-t-intuition. 
As the production of nature is unconscious, though similar to 
that which is conscious, so the sesthetic production of the 
artist is a conscious production, similar to that which is un- 
conscious. Esthetics must therefore be joined to teleology. 
That contradiction between the conscious and the uncon- 
scious, which moves forward untiringly in historj', and which 
is unconsciously reconciled in nature, finds its conscious 
reconciliation in a work of art. In a work of art, the intelli- 
gence attains a perfect intuition of itself. The feeling which 
accompanies this intuition, is the feeling of an infinite satis- 
faction ; all contradictions being solved, and every riddle ex- 
plained. The unknown, which unexpectedl}^ harmonizes the 
objective and the conscious activit}-^, is nothing other than 
that absolute unchangeable identity to which every existence 
must be referred. In the artist it lays aside the veil, which 
elsewhere surrounds it, and irresistibly impels him to com- 
plete his work. Thus there is no other eternal revelation but 
art, and this is also the miracle which should convince us of 
the realit}^ of that supreme, which is never itself objective, 
but is the cause of all objectivity. Hence art holds a higher 
rank than philosophy, for only in art has the intellectual intui- 
tion objectivity. There is nothing, therefore, for the philoso- 
pher higher than art, because this opens before him, as it 
were, the holy of hoUes, where that which is separate in na- 
ture and history, and which in life and action, as in thought, 
must ever diverge, burns, as it were, in one flame, in an eter- 
nal and original union. From this we see also both the fact 
tliat philosophy, as philosophy, can never be universally valid, 
and the reason for it. Art is that alone to which is given an 
absolute objectivity, and it is through this alone that nature, 
consciously productive, concludes and completes itself within 
itself. 

The " Transcendental Idealism'' is the last work which 
Sclielling wrote after the method of Fichte. In its principle he 
goes decidedly bej^ond the standpoint of Fichte. That which 



SCHELLING. 371 

was with Fichte the inconceivable limit of the Ego, Schelling 
derives as a necessary duality, from the simple essence of the 
Ego. While Fichte had regarded the union of subject and 
object, only as an infinite progression towards that which 
ought to be, Schelling looked upon it as actually accomplished 
in a work of art. With Fichte God was apprehended only as 
the object of a moral faith, but with Schelling he was looked 
upon as the immediate object of the aesthetic intuition. This 
difference between the two could not long be concealed from 
Schelling. He was obliged to see that he no longer stood 
upon the basis of subjective idealism, but that his real posi- 
tion was that of objective idealism. If he had akeady gone 
bej^ond Fichte in setting the philosophy of nature and tran- 
scendental philosoph}^ opposite to each other, it was perfectly 
consistent for him now to go one step farther, and, placing 
himself on the point of indifference between the two, make 
the identity of the ideal and the real, of thought and being, as 
his principle. This principle Spinoza had alread}^ possessed 
before him. To this philosophy of identity Schelling now 
found himself j)eculiarly attracted. Instead of following 
Fichte's method, he now availed himself of that of Spinoza, 
the mathematical, to which he ascribed the greatest evidence 
of proof. 

III. Third Period : Period of Spinozisji, or the Indif- 
ference OF THE Ideal and the Real. 

The principal writings of this period are : ' ' Exposition 
of my System of Philosophy " (Journal of Speculative Physics, 
ii. 2) ; the second edition, with additions, of the " Ideas for 
a Philosophy of Natitre" 1803; the dialogue, ''Bruno, or 
concerning the Divine and the Natural Principle of Things,'' 
1802 ; " Lectures on the Method of Academical Study,'' 1803 ; 
thi-ee numbers of a '' Neio Journcd of Speculative Physics," 
1802-3. The character of the new standpoint of Schel- 
ling, at which we now arrive, is clearly exhibited in the defi- 
nition of reason, which he places at the head of the first of the 
above-named writings ; I call reason absolute reason, or rea- 



372 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

son, in so far as it is conceived as the total indifference of the 
subjective and the objective. EA^eiy one is supposed to be com- 
petent to think of reason ; to think of it as absolute, and thus 
to reach the standpoint which I requu-e, abstraction must be 
made from the thinking subject. To him who makes this ab- 
straction, reason immediately ceases to be something subjec- 
tive, as most men represent it ; neither can it be conceived 
as something objective, since an objective, or that which is 
thought, is onl}' possible in opposition to that which thinks. 
It becomes, therefore, through this abstraction a true in-itself 
(absolute), which is the indifference-point between subject 
and object. The standpoint of philosoph}^ is the standpoint 
of reason ; its knowledge is a knowledge of things as the}^ are 
in themselves, i.e.^ as the}' are in the reason. It is the 
nature of philosoph}^ to destro}^ every distinction which the 
imagination has mingled with pure thought, and to see in 
tilings only that through which they express the absolute rea- 
son, not regarding in them that which is simpl}' an object for 
that reflection which expends itself on the laws of mechanism 
and in time. Besides reason there is nothing, and in it is 
every thing. Reason is the absolute. All objections to this 
principle can only arise from the fact, that men are in the 
habit of looking at things not as the}' are in reason, but as 
they appear. Every thing which is, is in essence like the 
reason, and one with it. It is not the reason which posits 
something external to itself, but only the false use of reason, 
which is connected with the inability to forget the subjective 
in ourselves. The reason is absolutely one and self- identical. 
The highest law for the being of reason, and since there is 
nothing besides reason, the highest law for all being, is the 
law of identity. Between subject and object therefore — since 
it is one and the same absolute identity which displays itself 
in both — there can be no difference except a quantitative dif- 
ference (a difference of more or less) , so that nothing is either 
simple object or simple subject, but in all things subject and 
object arc united, this union being in different proportions, 



SCHELLING. 373 

SO that sometimes the subject and sometimes the object has 
the preponderance. But since the absolute is pure identit}^ 
of subject and object, there can be no quantitative difference 
except outside of the identity, i.e., in the finite. As the fun- 
damental form of the infinite is A = A, so the scheme of the 
finite is A = B (i.e., the union of subjective with objective in 
different proportions). But, in reality, nothing is finite, be- 
cause the identity is the only realit3\ So far as there is 
difference in individual things, the identity exists in the form 
of indifference. If we could see at one glance every thing 
which is, we should find in all the pure identit}^, because we 
should find in all a perfect quantitative equilibrium of subjec- 
tivity and objectivit3\ True, we find, in looking at individual 
objects, that sometimes the preponderance is on one side and 
sometimes on the other, but in the whole this is compensated. 
The absolute identity is the absolute totalit}", the universe 
itself. There is in reality no individual being or thing. There 
is in reality nothing beyond the totality ; and if any thing 
beyond this is beheld, .this can only happen by virtue of an 
arbitrary separation of the individual from the whole, which 
is done through reflection, and is the source of everj^ error. 
The absolute identity is essentiall}' the same in ever}^ part of 
the universe. Hence the universe maj^ be conceived under 

the figure of a line, in the centre of which is the A = A, while 

+ 
at the end on one side is A = B, i.e., a preponderance of the 

+ 
subjective, and at the end on the other side is A = B, i.e., a 

preponderance of the objective, though this must be conceived 

so that a relative identity may exist even in these extremes. 

The one side is the real or nature, the other side is the ideal. 

The real side develops itself according to three potences (a 

potence, or power, indicates a definite quantitative difference 

of subjectivity and objectivit}^) . 

(1) The first potence is matter and gravity — the greatest 

preponderance of the object. (2) The second potence is 

light ( A^) , an inner — as weight is an outer — intuition of 



374 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

nature. Light is a, higher ascent of the subjective. It is the 
absolute identit}' itself. (3) The third potence is organiza- 
tion (A^) , the common product of light and gravity'. Organ- 
ization is just as original as matter. Inorganic nature, as 
such, does not exist : it is actually organized, and is, as it 
were, the universal germ out of which organization proceeds. 
The organization of every sphere is but the externalization 
of the inner being of the sphere itself; the earth itself, b}^ a 
process of self-evolution, becomes animal and plant. The 
organic world has not formed itself out of the inorganic, but 
has been at least potentiall}' present in it from the beginning. 
That matter which lies before us, apparently inorganic, is the 
residuum of organic metamorphoses, which could not become 
organic. The human brain is the highest bloom of the whole 
organic metamorphosis of the earth. From the above, 
Schelling adds, it must be perceived that we affirm an inner 
identity' of all things, and a potential presence of CA^ery thing 
in every other, and therefore even the so-called dead matter 
ma}' be viewed onl}' as a sleeping world of animals and plants, 
which, in some period, the a])solute identit}' may animate and 
raise to life. At this point Schelling stops suddenl}', without 
developing further the three potences of the ideal series, cor- 
responding to those of the real. Elsewhere he completes the 
work b}' setting up the following three potences of the ideal 
series : (1) Knowledge, the potence of reflection ; (2) Action, 
the potence of subsumption ; (3) the Reason as the unit}- of 
reflection and sul)sumption. These tlu'cc potences appear: 
(1) as the true, the assimilation of matter in form; (2) as 
the good, or the assimilation of form in matter ; (3) as the 
beautiful, or the work of art, the absolute blending together 
of form and matter. 

Schelling sought also to furnijsh himself with a new method 
for knowing the absolute identity'. Neither the anal^^tic nor 
the synthetical method seems to him suitable for this, since 
both afford onl}- a finite knowledge. Gradually, also, he 
abandoned the mathematical method. The logical forms of 



SCHELLING. 375 

the ordinary method of knowledge, and even the ordinary 
metaph3-sical categories, were insufficient for him. ScheUing 
now places the intellectual intuition as the starting-point of 
true knowledge. Intuition, in general, is an equipoise of 
thought and being. When I intuit an object, the being of the 
object and my thought of the object are for me absolutel}^ the 
same. But in ordinary intuition, some particular sensuous 
thing is posited as one with the thought. But in the intel- 
lectual or rational intuition, being in general and every being 
is made identical with the thought, the absolute subject-object 
is beheld. The intellectual intuition is absolute knowledge, 
and as such it can only be conceived as that in which thought 
and being are not opposed to each other. It is the begin- 
ning and the first step towards philosophy to behold, imme- 
diately and intellectual^ within th3'self, that same indifference 
of the ideal and the real which thou beholdest projected as it 
were from thyself in space and time. This absolutel}^ abso- 
lute mode of knowledge is wholl}' and entirely in the absolute 
itself. That it can never be taught is clear. It cannot, more- 
over, be seen why philosoph}^ is bound to have special regard 
to this inabilit3\ It seems much more fitting to make so com- 
plete a separation on everj^ side between the entrance to phi- 
losophy and the common knowledge, that no road nor track 
shall lead from the latter to the former. The absolute mode 
of knowledge, like the truth which it contains, has no true op- 
position outside of itself, and as it cannot be demonstrated by 
an}^ intelligent being, so nothing can be set up in opposition 
to it by any. — Schelling attempted to reduce the intellectual 
intuition to a method, and named this method construction. 
The possibility and the necessity of the constructive method is 
based upon the fact that the absolute is in all, and that all is 
the absolute. Construction is nothing other than the demon- 
stration that the whole is absolutely expressed in ever}^ par- 
ticular relation and object. To construe an object, philo- 
sophically, is to prove that in this object the whole inner 
structure of the absolute repeats itself. 



376 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

In Schelling's ''^Lectures on the Method of Academical 
Study'' (delivered 1802, and published in 1803), he sought 
to treat enc^xlopedicalh', eveiy philosophical discipline from 
the given standpoint of identity' or indifference. The}^ fiurnish 
a connected and popular exposition of the outlines of his phi- 
losoph}', in the form of a critical review of the studies of the 
universit}^ course. The most noticeable feature in them is 
Schelling's attempt at a historical construction of Chi'istian- 
it}'. The incarnation of God is an incarnation from eternit3% 
The eternal Son of God, born from the essence of the father 
of all things, is the finite itself, as it is in the eternal intuition 
of God. Chi'ist is onl}' the historical and phenomenal pinna- 
cle of the incarnation ; as an individual, he is a person wholly 
intelligible from the circumstances of the age in which he 
appeared. Since God is eternal^ outside of all time, it is 
inconceivable that he should have assumed a human nature 
at anj definite moment of time. The temporal form of 
Christianit}^, the exoteric Christianity does not correspond 
to its idea, and its perfection is jet to come. A chief 
hindrance to the perfection of Chi'istianity was, and is, the 
so-called Bible, which, moreover, is far inferior to other 
rehgious writings, in a genuine religious content. The future 
must bring a new birth of esoteric Christianit}", or a new and 
higher form of religion, in which philosophy, religion, and 
poes}' shall melt together in unit}'. — This latter remark con- 
tains alread}' an intimation of the " Philosophy of Revela- 
tion^^' a work subsequently written hy Schelling, and which 
exhibited man}' of the principles current in the age of the 
Apostle John. In the work we are now considering, there 
are also many other points which correspond to this later 
standpoint of Schelling. Thus he places at the summit of 
history a kind of golden age. It is inconceivable, he says, 
that man as he now appears, should have raised himself 
tln'ough liimself from instinct to consciousness, from animal- 
it}' to rationality. Another human race, must, therefore, 
have preceded the present, which ancient legends have im- 



SCHELLING. 377 

mortalized under the form of gods and heroes. The first 
origin of religion and culture is only conceivable through the 
instruction of higher natures. I hold a state of culture to 
have been the first condition of the human race, and consider 
the first foundation of states, sciences, religion, and arts as 
cotemporar}', or rather as one thhig : so that all these were 
not trul}' separate, but in the completest interpenetration, as 
it will be again in the final consummation. Schelling is no 
more than consistent when he according^ apprehends the 
s^Tubols of mythology which we meet with at the beginning 
of history, as disclosures of the highest wisdom. There is 
here also a step towards his subsequent " Philosophy of My- 
thology.'' 

The m^^stical element revealed in these expressions of 
Schelling gained continually a greater prominence with him. 
Its growth was partly connected with liis fruitless search after 
an absolute method, and a fitting form in which he might 
haA^e satisfactorily expressed his philosophic intuitions. All 
noble m^^sticism rests on the inability to adequately express 
an infinite content in the form of a conception. So Schelling, 
after he had been restlessly tossed aboilt from method to 
method, soon gave up also his method of construction, and 
abandoned himself wholly to the unlimited current of his 
fancy. But though this was partly the cause of his mysti- 
cism, it is also true that his philosophical standpoint was 
gradually undergoing a change. From the speculative sci- 
ence of nature, he was gradually passing over more and more 
into the philosoph}^ of mind, whereby his conception and defi- 
nition of the absolute became changed. While he had pre- 
viously defined the absolute as the indifference of the ideal 
and the real, he now gives a preponderance to the ideal over 
the real, and makes ideality the fundamental determination 
of the absolute. The ideal is the first ; secondly, the ideal 
determines itself in itself to the real ; and the real as such is 
only third. The earlier harmony of mind and natm-e is dis- 
solved : matter appears now as the negative of mind. Since 



378 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Schelling in this wa^^ distinguishes the universe from the abso- 
hite as its counterpart, we see that he leaves decidedl}^ the 
basis of Spinozism on which he had previous!}' stood, and 
places himself on a new standpoint. 

IV. Fourth Period : the Mystical or Neo-Platonic 

FORM OF ScHELLING's PHILOSOPHY. 

The writings of this period are: ^'•Philosophy and Re- 
ligion^'' 1804; '^Exposition of the true relation of the Phi- 
losophy of Nature to the improved Theory of Fichte,'' 1806 ; 
'•' Medical Annual'' (published in company with Marcus) 
1805-1808. — As has already been said, the absolute and the 
universe were, on the standpoint of indifference, identical. 
Nature and history were immediate manifestations of the ab- 
solute. But now Schelling la3'S stress upon the difference 
between the two, and the independence of the world. This 
he expresses in a striking wa}' in the first of the above-named 
writings, b}' placing the origin of the world wholly after the 
manner of Neo-Platonism, in a breaking awa}' or a falling off 
from the absolute. From the absolute to the actual, there is 
no continuous transition ; the origin of the sensible world is 
onl}^ concei^'able as a complete breaking off per scdtum from 
the absolute. The absolute is the only real, finite things are 
not real ; they can, therefore, have their ground in no reality 
imparted to them from the absolute, but only in a separa- 
tion and complete falling awa}- from the absolute. The rec- 
onciliation of this fall, and the complete manifestation of 
God, is the final cause of history. With this idea there are 
also connected other conceptions borrowed from Neo-Pla- 
tonism, which Schelling brings out in the same work. He 
speaks in it of the descent of the soul from intellectuality, to 
the world of sense, and like the Platonic myth he allows this 
fall of souls to be a punishment for their selfhood (pride) ; 
he speaks also in connection with this of a regeneration, or 
transmigration of souls, b}' which they either begin a higher 
life on a better sphere, or intoxicated with matter, are driven 
down to a still lower abode, according as they have in the 



SCHELLING. 379 

present life laid aside more or less of their selfhood, and be- 
come purified in a greater or less degree, to an identity with 
the infinite ; but we are especially reminded of Neo-Platon- 
ism b}' the high place and the mj'stical and sjTubolical signifi- 
cance which Schelling gives in this work to the Greek mys- 
teries (even in the Bruno) , and the view that if religion would 
be held in its pure idealit}', it can onl}^ exist esotericallj', or in 
the form of mysteries. — This notion of a higher identifica- 
tion of reUgion and philosophy goes thi'ough all the wTitings 
of this period. All true experience, says Schelling in the 
" Medical Annual " is religious. The existence of God is an 
empirical truth, and the ground of all experience. True, re- 
ligion is not philosoph}', but the philosoph}- which does not 
unite in sacred harmony religion with science, were unworthy 
of the name. True, I know something higher than science. 
And if science has only these two waj's to knowledge open 
before it, viz., that of anal3'sis or abstraction, and that of 
synthetic derivation, then we deny all science of the absolute. 
Speculation is every thing, i.e., a beholding, a contemplation 
of that which is in God. Science itself has worth onl}^ so 
far as it is speculative, i.e., only so far as it is a contempla- 
tion of God as he is. But the time will come when sciences 
shall more and more cease, and immediate knowledge take 
then- place. The mortal eye closes only in the highest sci- 
ence, where it is no longer the man who sees, but the eternal 
beholding which has now come to see in him. 

With this theosophic view of the world, Schelling was led 
to pay attention to the earlier m3'stics. He began to study 
their writings. He answered the charge of mysticism in his 
controvers}" with Fichte as follows : Among the learned of 
the last centmy, there was a tacit agreement never to go be- 
yond a certain height, and, therefore, the genuine spirit of 
science was given up to the unlearned. These, because they 
were uneducated and had drawn upon themselves the jealousy 
of the learned, were called fanatics. But man}^ a philosopher 
by profession might well have exchanged all his rhetoric for 



380 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

the fulness of mind and heart which abound in the writings 
of such fanatics. Therefore I am not ashamed of the name 
of such a fanatic. I will even seek to make this reproach 
true ; if I have not hitherto studied the writings of these men 
coiTcctl}^, it has been owing to negligence. 

Schelling did not omit to verify these words. There were 
some special mental affinities between himself and Jacob 
Boehme, with whom he now became more and more closely 
joined. A study of his writings is indeed indicated in Schel- 
ling's works of the present period. One of the most famous 
of Schelling's writings, his theory of freedom, which appeared 
after this (" Philosophical Inquiry into the Nature of Human 
Freedom^'' 1809), is composed entirely in the spirit of Jacob 
Boehme. With this begins the last period of Schelling's phi- 
losophizing. 

Y. Fifth Period : — Attempt at a Theogony and Cos- 
mogony AFTER the Manner of Jacob Boehme. 

Schelling had much in common with Jacob Boehme. Both 
considered speculative cognition to be a kind of immediate 
intuition. Both made use of forms which mingled the ab- 
stract and the sensuous, and interpenetrated the definiteness 
of logic with the coloring of fanc3\ Both, in fine, were spec- 
ulatively in close contact. The self-duplication of the abso- 
lute was a fundamental thought of Boehme. Starting with 
the principle, that the divine essence was the indeterminable, 
infinite, and inconceivable, the ungi'ounded, Boehme conceives 
this essence, from a feeling of its own abstract infinitude, to 
project itself into the finite, ^.e., into the ground, or centre of 
nature, where in then* gloom}' torture-chamber the qualities 
are separated, from whose harsh collision the lightning streams 
forth, which, as mind or principle of light, is destined to rule 
and explain the struggling powers of nature, so that the God 
who has been raised from the absence of ground through a 
ground to the light of the mind, may henceforth move in an 
eternal kingdom of joy. This thcogoii}^ of Jacob Boehme is 
in striking accord with the present standpoint of Schelling. 



SCHELLING. 381 

As Boehme had apprehended the absolute as the indetermina- 
ble absence of ground, so had Schelling in his earlier writings 
apprehended it as indifference. As Boehme had distinguished 
this absence of ground from a ground, or from nature, and 
from God as the light of minds, so had Schelling, in the 
writings of the last period, apprehended the absolute as a 
self-renunciation, and a return back from this renunciation 
into a higher unity with itself. We have here the three chief 
elements of that history of God, around which Schelling's es- 
sa}^ on freedom turns : (1) God as indifference, or the absence 
of ground ; (2) God as duplication into ground and existence, 
real and ideal ; (3) reconciliation of this duplication, and 
elevation of the original indifference to identity. The first 
element of the divine life is that of pure indifference, or in- 
distinguishableness. This, which precedes every thing exist- 
ing, may be called the original ground, or the absence of 
ground. The absence of ground is not a product of oppo- 
sites, nor are they contained implidte in it, but it is a proper 
essence separate from every opposite, and having no predi- 
cate but that of predicatelessness. Real and ideal, darkness 
and light, can never be predicated of the absence of ground 
as opposites ; they can only be affirmed of it as not-opposites 
in a neither-nor. From this indifference now rises the dualit}" : 
the absence of ground separates into two co-eternal begin- 
nings, so that ground and existence may become one through 
love, and the indeterminable and lifeless indifference may rise 
to a determinate and living identity. Since nothing is before 
or external to God, he must have the ground of his existence 
in himself. But this ground is not simply logical, as concep- 
tion, but real, as something which is actually to be distin- 
guished in God from existence ; it is nature in God, an 
essence inseparable indeed from him, but 3^et distinct. Hence 
we cannot assign to this ground understanding and will, but 
only a desire to attain these ; it is the longing to produce 
itself. But in that this gTound moves in its longing accord- 
ing to obscure and uncertain laws like a swelling sea, there 



382 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

is, self-begotten iu God, another and reflexive motion, an 
inner representation by which, since no other content than 
God himself is possible for it, he beholds himself in his im- 
age. This representation is God himself produced in him- 
self, the eternal word in God, which rises as light in the 
darkness of the ground, and endows its blind longing with 
understanding. This understanding, united with the ground, 
becomes free creative will. Its work is to give order to na- 
ture, and to regulate the hitherto unregulated ground; and 
from this explanation of the real through the ideal, comes the 
creation of the world. The development of the world has 
two stadia : (1) the travail of light, or the progressive devel- 
opment of nature to man ; (2) the travail of mind, or the 
development of man in histor3\ 

(1) The progressive development of nature proceeds from 
a conflict of the ground with the understanding. The ground 
originally sought to produce every thing solely from itself, 
but its products had no stability without the understanding, 
and reverted to the ground, a creation which we see exhib- 
ited in the extinct classes of animals and plants of the pre- 
historic world. But consecutively and gradually, the ground 
admitted the work of the understanding, and every such step 
towards light is indicated by a new class of beings. In ever}' 
creature of nature we must, therefore, distinguish two prin- 
ciples : first, the obscure principle through which they are 
separate from God, and have a particular will ; second, the 
divine principle of the understanding, of the universal will. 
With irrational creatures, however, these two principles are 
not 3'et brought to unity ; but the particular will is simple 
passion and desire, while the universal will, without the in- 
dividual will, reigns as an external natural force, as con- 
trolling instinct. 

(2) The two principles, the particular and the universal 
will, are first united in man as the}' arc in the absolute : but 
in God they are united inseparabl}' ; in man separabl}', in 
order that there may be a difference between man and God, 



SCHELLING. 383 

and that God, as opposed to man, may be revealed as the 
unity of both principles, as a spirit which overcomes the dif- 
ference, as love. It is just this separableness of the univer- 
sal will, and the particular will, which makes good and evil 
possible. The good is the subjection of the particular will to 
the universal will, and the reverse of this right relation is 
evil. Human freedom consists in this possibilit}' of good and 
evil. The empirical man, however, is not free, but his whole 
empirical condition is posited by a previous act of intelli- 
gence. The man must act just as he does, but is neverthe- 
less free, because he has from eternity freely made himself 
that which he now necessarily is. From the creation, the 
will of the self-subsisting ground has also incited to action 
the individual will of the creature, in order that there might 
exist an opposition, in the suppression of which God might 
realize himself as the reconciling unit}'. In this universal 
excitation of evil, man has become involved in self-assertion 
and self-seeking ; hence all men are by nature evil, and 3'et 
in each this evil nature is the result of his own free acts. As 
the historj^ of nature rests upon the conflict of the ground 
with the understanding, so does the history of humanity, 
taken as a whole, rest upon the conflict of the individual will 
with the universal will. The different stages through which 
evil, as a historical power, passes in its conflict with love, 
constitute the periods of the world's history. Christianit}' is 
the centre of histor}- : in Christ, the principle of love came in 
personal contact with incarnate evil : Christ was the mediator 
to reconcile on the highest stage the creation with God ; for 
that which is personal can alone redeem the personal. The 
end of history is the reconciliation of the particular will and 
love, the prevalence of the universal will, so that God shall 
be all in all. The original indifference is thus elevated to 
absolute identity. 

Schelling has given a farther justification of this his idea 
of God, in his controversial pamphlet against Jacobi (1812). 
The charge of naturalism which Jacobi made against him, he 



384 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

sought to refute by showing how the true idea of God is a 
union of naturalism and theism. Natiu'ahsm seeks to con- 
ceive of God as ground of the world (immanent) , while the- 
ism would view him as the world's cause (transcendent) ; the 
true course is to unite both determinations. God is at the 
same time ground and cause. It no way contradicts the con- 
ception of God to affirm that, so far as he reveals himself, he 
develops himself from himself, advancing from the imperfect 
to the perfect : the imperfect is in fact the perfect itself, only 
in a state of becoming. It is necessary that this becoming 
should be by stages, in order that the fulness of the perfect 
ma}" appear on all sides. If there were no obscure ground, 
no nature, no negative principle in God, we could not speak 
of a consciousness of God. So long as the God of modern 
theism remains the simple essence which ought to be purely 
essential, but which in fact is without essence, so long as an 
actual twofoldness is not recognized in God, and a limiting 
and denying energy (a nature, a negative principle) is not 
placed in opposition to the extending and affirming energ}^ in 
God, so long will science be entitled to deny the existence of 
a personal God. It is universally and essentially impossible 
to conceive of a being with consciousness, which has not 
been brought into limitation by some negative energj^ within 
himself, — as universally and essentially impossible as to con- 
ceive of a circle without a centre. 

Schelling's letter to Eschenmayer in the Universal Journal 
of Germans for Germans^ maybe regarded as an explanation 
of the views advanced in his essay on freedom, and in his 
reply to Jacobi. In this letter he expresses himself more 
clearl}^ than in his previous writings in regard to the signifi- 
cance of the word ground^ and in regard to the extent to 
which he is justified in speaking of a ground in God. After 
this letter there was a pause in Schelling's literar}^ activity. 
It was, indeed, rumored that the publication of a great work 
entitled The Ages of the World had been begun, but that 
when partly printed, it had been withdrawn by Sclielhng and 



SCHELLING. 385 

destro3'ed. From this title the public was led to expect a phi- 
losophy of histoiy. Moreover the short supplementary essay 
on TIls Deities of Samothrace^ published in 1815, indicated 
that in the main work great emphasis was to be placed upon 
the development of the religious consciousness. Now, indeed, 
that the first book of The Ages of the World has appeared in 
the eighth volume of Schelling's collected writings in the form 
which he gave to it about the 3'ear 1815, we see that the first 
book treats of the past as that which is to be thought of as 
antecedent to nature, the second oi i\iQ present^ z.e., of nature 
itself, and that the third was to contain anticipations of the 
future. For the rest, we see that at least the main features 
of the later doctrine of potences were even then firmly fixed 
in Schelling's mind. After Stahl and Sengier had directed 
public attention to the new direction of Schelling's doctrines, 
an extraordiuarj' sensation was produced b}^ the introduction 
which Schelling prefixed to H. Bekker's translation of a work 
of Cousin. This was caused not only by the bitterness of his 
expressions in reference to Hegel, who, he said, had entirely 
misunderstood the s^^stem of identity' ; but also b}^ his open 
declaration that the system which he had hitherto developed 
was only one, and that the negative half of philosoph}' ; that, 
as the complement of this, a second, positive side must be 
added, which should be constructed not purely a priori^ but 
by a method which should not altogether exclude the most 
extreme empiricism. In a similar waj', though with less bit- 
terness toward Hegel, he expressed himself in the introduc- 
tory lecture with which he opened his course in Berlin in 1841. 
Since the public was soon convinced that Schelling would 
hardly submit the doctrines expounded in his Berlin discourses 
to a larger circle of readers, attempts were made, — after the 
pubhcation of extracts by Frauenstadt and others, and espe- 
cially after the publication of Dr. Paulus' notes, which Schel- 
ling's own complaint of piracy seemed to authenticate, — 
partly to criticise, partly to expound his present doctrines. 
That these were only partially correct was made evident, 
17 



386 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

when, after Schelling's death, his sons made public not only 
the introduction to the Philosopliy of Mythology, but also the 
Pliilosopliy of Revelation. These works enable us to form 
a quite accurate conception of the later phase of Schelling's 
philosoph}'. Just as in the essay on freedom and in the sub- 
sequent XDublications, that which in the third period is called 
the absolute indifference, is designated as the prius of natm-e 
and mind, — and of God, in so far as it is that in God which 
is not (3'et) God, — so now it is shown, how from this pre- 
conception of God, which pantheism substitutes in the place 
of the common conception of him, the transition is made to 
the true notion of God, that, namely, possessed by true mono- 
theism, which vanquishes pantheism by rendering the latter 
latent within it. In this process of the explanation of the 
conception of God, three moments, or, — as Schelling in ac- 
cordance with his earlier method would have expressed it, — 
potences are to be distinguished ; first the poiver-to-exist, 
which, since it is not jet overt existence, is characterized by 
the minus sign, and commonl}' denoted by —A. It is the 
ground, or even nature, in God, the obscurit}' which awaits 
explanation, which earlier. In the essay on freedom, was called 
hunger for existence, and which ma}^ also be termed subject 
of being or potential being. Over against this mere abilit}' 
to exist stands its opposite +A, i.e., pure being, without 
potentialit}'. And as the former was mere subject, so the 
latter is mere predicate and object ; as the former was a self 
and existent in-itself, so the latter is rather that which exists 
outside of itself, instead of withdrawing itself within itself. 
Both together constitute the presupposition for a third, ±A, 
which is excluded from both, and in which potentiality and 
actuality, or subjectivity and objectivit}^ are so united that it 
ma}- be called that which exists by itself or is master of it- 
self. This third, which as —A has the first and thus the 
highest claim to exist, is most appropriately designated spirit. 
Although the unit}' of these three is God, he is 3'et far from 
being triune ; he is as 3'et only the all-one ; a conception 



SCHELLIKG. 387 

which contains only the root of triunit}'. The progress toward 
the trinity, and at the same time also toward the universe as 
distinguished from God, proceeds so that —A is posited ex- 
plicitly as the not-being. To this end, however, — since onl}' 
that which is can be posited as not-being, — it is necessary to 
presuppose that it was previously posited as being, and was 
then overcome by an opposing -{-A. The appearance of this 
opposition (tension), which springs not from the nature, but 
from the will of God, has (since, properl}', in it the relation 
of the two potences is reversed, —A having become the exist- 
ent, and -|- A potentialit}' or power) , for its result, the con- 
version of the original relation, and thus of the unum versum 
(universe) ; the same end is also subserved b}^ this, that, 
above each as now transformed, ± A is God as self-possessed, 
actual sphit. Theogony and cosmogonj- here coincide. The 
latter displays successive stages in which the different rela- 
tions of the two potences are deduced by the philosophy of 
nature. In the human consciousness, which is the final point 
of this development, the conflict of the two potences is termi- 
nated. The forces, from whose strife the world arose, repose 
within the human spu*it, which just for this reason is the 
actual microcosm. By the Promethean act of the apprehen- 
sion of self as Ego, the hitherto only ideal world becomes 
through its externality to God, real ; and its vocation is to be 
subordinate to that from which it has separated itself; where- 
by this latter naturall}' becomes supramundane, instead of 
transmundane as formerl}'. The course to this end is through 
the different relations of the Ego, which being related theo- 
retically to the laws of nature, and practically to the moral 
law through w^hich it becomes free, raises itself finall}' to 
aesthetic and contemplative satisfaction, w^hose object is termed 
b}' Aristotle the thinking of thought, and by modern philoso- 
phy subject-object, — the final cause of the Tvorld, or God as 
principle of the same. 

The course which Schelling here pursues is designated by 
him the progress toward God. Commencing with the pri- 



388 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

mary conditions of all being, passing to the position, that 
these potences are the causes of a divided and in-itself-grad- 
iiated being, proceeding thence to the self-assertion of the 
Ego as principle, and its consequent isolation from God, the 
result of his doctrine is that the Ego declares itself not to be 
principle, but subordinates itself to the excluded and isolated 
God, whom finally it recognizes as being himself the first 
principle. Finally: we have hitherto philosophized toward 
God, and therefore, without God : it has been shown that 
none of the steps hitherto considered, neither the knowledge 
of nature, nor life in the state, nor even contemplative ab- 
sorption yield an absolute satisfaction ; philosophy, therefore, 
by vktue of these negative results, must be termed negative 
philosoph}'. Since its development has been conditioned by 
thought alone, it may also be called rational philosoph3\ 
Moreover since thought has no power to give realit}', to be- 
stow existence, the end of rational philosophy is still only 
God as idea. But here what thought cannot accomplish is 
realized by will. The will demands an active God who is 
lord of all being, and is Avilling to actively oppose the schism 
which has actually- appeared. This longing for an actual God 
is religion, and philosophj', when it arrives at this standpoint, 
has religion for its object, and attains a character entireh^ 
diffierent from that which it previously possessed : it becomes 
positive philosoph}'. Since religion is based upon a free act 
of the will, philosoph}^ with religion for its object, is no 
longer purely rational, but its problem is : to explain religion 
as a given fact, and to show how all is adjusted when God, 
who appeared as the result of negative philosophy, is made 
the initial principle from which ever}' thing must be deduced. 
The philosophy of religion, — which is not to be confounded 
Avith a so-called religion of reason, — has for its subject-mat- 
ter parti}' the development of religion, and partly religion in 
its completed form. In the first case it is the philosophy of 
mytholog}^, in the second the philosophy of revelation. In 
the philosophy of mythology, Schelling sought to determine 



SCHELLING. 389 

how it is that sane men can allow themselves to be governed 
b}' notions which represent the sacrifice of a son, for example, 
as a duty ; and, again, how it is that from the standpoint of 
Christianit}^ even notions such as these seem to be better than 
the absence of all religion whatever. His explanation is, that 
the forces by which these men and peoples were dominated, 
and which were regarded by them as God, can be appre- 
hended from the standpoint of the highest religion as being 
at least moments in God. The primitive form of religion, in 
which humanity is pervaded by God, and which, since no 
polytheism as yet existed, may be called monotheism (though 
an abstract one), is followed by the crisis which is one with 
the development of the nations, in which the consciousness 
of humanity repeats the same process of potences through 
which (externally and prior to consciousness) the progressive 
development of nature arose. Hence that parallelism between 
this latter and the stages of mythology which has caused 
many to make the mistake of supposing mythology to be only 
natural philosophy in disguise. Philosoph}^ now shows that 
the mythological process consists in this, that instead of the 
all-one which iii primitive monotheism dominates the con- 
sciousness, the individual potences take possession of it. 
The first step is that where the consciousness feels itself gov^- 
erned by the revolutions of the heavens, — a form of religion 
which may be called star-worship or Sabianism. Since my- 
thology reached its bloom in Greece all the notions of its 
earlier stages appear there also. Thus Uranus represents 
that consciousness which appeared first in the development of 
m3'thology. The second stage, in which the first potence 
(—A) is reduced to passivity by the second, appears in the 
emasculation of Uranus. It is characteristic that the Greek 
historian Herodotus, where he mentions this moment of the 
mythological process (stereotj'-ped among the Bab3'lonians and 
Arabians) , introduces Urania and her son Dionysus. On this 
second stage stand the most different religions, not only those 
which follow entirely the mythological process (the Phoenician, 



390 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Eg3'ptian, Indian, &c.), but also those wliich endeavor to ter- 
minate it at some definite point, as the duahsm of the Per- 
sians and Buddhism. The highest stage of philosophy is the 
Grecian, as displayed in those mj'steries, in wliich mythology 
begins to make clear to itself its own nature, and thus to 
transcend its proper limits. Hence the study of the myste- 
ries is a fitting introduction to the philosoph}- of revelation. 
The peculiar problem of the latter is to explain from its 
premises the person of Chiist which is the proper content of 
all Christianity. The work of Christ before his incarnation, 
and the mediation accomplished by this act, are considered ; 
but it is always kept in ^iew, that the mythological develop- 
ment is the presupposition, and, in its last stage, the presage, 
of that which became actual in Christ. The completion of 
his work prepares the wa}' for the activit}' of the third po- 
tence, the Spirit, through whom the church as the explication 
of Christ, exists. The periods of the church are tj-pified by 
the three principal apostles, Peter, Paul, and John. Of these 
periods the first two, Catholicism and Protestantism, have 
passed, while the third, Johannine Christianity, is approach- 
ing. 

There is undeniably something grand in this attempt to 
comprehend the world with its external and internal history 
as the self-mediation of God with himself, to unite panthe- 
ism and theism in the higher conception of a God who is both 
free and subject to development ("monotheism"). How 
closely this last phase of Schelling s philosophy concides with 
the Hegelian, which in its own way also takes for its starting- 
point the conception of a process of the absolute mediated 
through negation, will become evident in the discussion of the 
Hegelian system to which we now proceed. 



TRANSITION TO HEGEL. 391 

SECTION XLIV. 

TRANSITIOX TO HEGEL. 

The radical defect of Scbelliug's philosophy, as seen in its 
earlier development in opposition to Fichte, was its abstract 
objective apprehension of the absolute. The absolute was 
pure indifference, identit}^ ; there was (1) no possibilit}^ of a 
transition from it to the definite and real, — hence Schelling 
maintained later a complete dualism between the absolute and 
the real world ; and (2) in it the spiritual surrendered its 
primacy to the physical, the one was equated with the other, 
the pure objective indifference of the ideal and the real was 
placed above both, and therefore above the former. From re- 
flection upon this one-sidedness arose the Hegelian philosopln'. 
Hegel, in agreement with Schelling, and in opposition to 
Fichte, maintains that not the individual, the Ego, is the 
jjrius of all reality, but that this jyrius is a universal which 
comprehends all individuals in itself. But he apprehends this 
universal not as indifference, but as development ; as a uni- 
versal in which the principle of difference is immanent, and 
which unfolds itself into the entire complex of realitj^ as ex- 
hibited in the natural and spiritual worlds. Similarh', ac- 
cording to Hegel, the absolute is not something objective, the 
negative extinction of being and thought, of the real and the 
ideal in a neutral thnd. The universal which is the ground 
of all things is rather one of the terms of this disjunction itself, 
namely, the ideal one ; the idea is the absolute, and all actual- 
ity is onl}' the realization of the idea. Hegel admits nothing 
higher than the idea ; neither is there an}' thing apart from 
it, since ever}^ thing which exists is the actualization of the 
idea. The universe is no indifference of the ideal and the 
real, but it is the reality into whose manifold forms the idea 
(in order that it ma}' not remain an unreal abstraction) dif- 



392 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

fereutiates itself, without, liowever, losing itself in them, but 
rather returning again from them to itself in the thinking 
spirit, in order that as conscious, self- thinking idea it may 
exist in a form which is true and adequate to its nature. 
Hegel thus reinvests mhid with its highest prerogatives. 
^Vith him mind is not one of the different modes under which 
the absolute exists ; but it is the absolute itself as self-con- 
scious existence ; it is the idea returned to itself, knowing 
itself as the truth of nature and the free power which governs 
it. The Hegelian sj'stem is thus diametrically opposed to 
that form of Schelling's philosophy which preceded it. As 
the latter became ever more and more realistic, Spinozistic, 
mystical, and dualistic, so the former became idealistic and 
rationalistic, — a pure monism of thought, a pure reconcilia- 
tion of intelligence and actuality. As Schelling posited an 
objective in the place of subjective idealism, so Hegelianism 
lifts itself above both these opposites, striving after an abso- 
lute idealism which shall once more subordinate the natural 
to the spiritual, and yet at the same time comprehend both 
as inwardl}' one and the same. 

As regards form, the method of the Hegelian philosoph}' is 
also essentially distinct from that of its predecessor. The 
absolute, according to Hegel, is not being, but development, 
the positing of distinctions and antitheses, which, however, 
are not independent of the absolute, nor altogether opposed 
to it, but constitute individually and collectively only mo- 
ments in the self-evolution of the absolute. It must there- 
fore be shown that the absolute has within itself a principle 
of progress b}' means of differences which are 3-et onl}" mo- 
ments of the absolute. We must not introduce differences 
into the absolute ; but the absolute must evolve them from 
itself; while the}', in turn, must resolve themselves into, and 
show themselves to be merely moments of, the whole. To 
exhibit this process is tlie object of the Hegelian method. 
It asserts that every conception has its proper antithesis, its 
own negation in itself, — is one-sided, and pushes foi*ward to 



TRANSITION TO HEGEL. 393 

a second conception, which is its opposite, but which itself is 
£is one-sided as the first. In this way it appears that botli 
are only moments of a third notion which is the higher nnit}- 
of both, — which contains them in itself, but in a higher form 
which mediates their unity. But no sooner is this new notion 
posited than it shows itself to be also a one-sided moment 
which in turn advances through negation to a higher unit}^ 
etc. This self-negation of the notion is, according to Hegel, 
the genesis of all distinctions and antitheses ; while these 
latter are not fixed and rigid as the reflecting understanding 
opines them to be, but unstable moments of the immanent 
movement of the notion. The same is true of the absolute 
itself. The universal which is the ground of all particulars 
becomes such only through the fact that the universal, as such, 
Is a one-sided conception which advances spontaneously to 
the negation of its own abstract universalit}' through concrete 
particularit3\ The absolute is not simple, but is a system of 
notions which owe their existence to this ver}' self-negation 
of the original universal. This S3'stem of notions is itself 
collectively an abstraction, which advances to the negation 
of mere notional (ideal) being, to reahty, to the real self- 
existence of the differences (in nature). To this latter, 
again, belongs equall}' the one-sidedness of being onlj- a mo- 
ment, and not the totality itself. And thus the independent 
existence of the real is also resolved ; it returns to the uni- 
versality of the notion in self-consciousness, in the thinking 
mind which embraces in itself ideal and real existence in a 
higher ideal unity of the universal and particular. This im- 
manent self-movement of the notion is the Hegelian method. 
It is not, like the method of Fichte, a mere subjective posit- 
ing of thesis, antithesis, s^mthesis, but it follows the course 
of the thing itself; it does not produce being, but that which 
in itself already is, it reproduces for the thinking conscious- 
ness ; it strives to understand the whole through that imma- 
nent connection of its parts which results from this, that b}^ 
virtue of an inner necessit}^ there exists everywhere this pro- 



394 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

duction of difference from unity and of unity from difference, 
the living pulsation of changing antitheses. 

Hegel has himself, in his " Phenomenology^'' the fii'st work 
in which he appeared as an independent philosopher, — having 
previously' been considered an adherent of Schelling, — clearly 
expressed his difference from Schelling, which he comprehen- 
sively' states in the following three hits. — In Schelling's phi- 
losoph}', the absolute is, as it were, shot out of a pistol ; it is 
onl}' the night in which every cow looks black ; when it is 
widened to a system, it is like the course of a painter, who 
has on his palette but two colors, red and green, and who 
would cover a surface with the former when a historical piece 
was demanded, and with the latter when a landscape was 
required. The first of these charges refers to the mode of 
attaining the idea of the absolute, viz., immediatel}', through 
intellectual intuition ; this leap Hegel changes, in his Phenom- 
enology^ to a regular transition, proceeding step by step. 
The second charge relates to the wa}^ in which the absolute 
thus gained is conceived and expressed, viz., simply as the 
absence of all finite distinctions, and not as the immanent 
positing of a system of distinctions within itself. Hegel de- 
clares that every thing depends upon apprehending and ex- 
pressing the true not as substance (?".e., as negation of 
determinateness) , but as subject (as a positing and producing 
of finite distinctions) . The third charge has to do with Schel- 
ling's manner of carrying out his principle through the con- 
crete content of the facts given in the natural and intellectual 
worlds, viz., by the application of a read3'-made schema (the 
opposition of the ideal and the real) to the objects, instead 
of suffering them to unfold and separate them.selves from 
themselves. The school of Schelling was especially given to 
this schematizing formalism, and that which Hegel remarks, 
in the introduction to his Phenomenology^ ma}' ver}^ well be 
appHed to it: "If tlic formalism of a philosophy of nature 
should liappen to teach that the understanding is electricity, 
or an animal nitrogen, the inexperienced might look upon 



TEAKSITION TO HEGEL. 395 

such instructions with deep amazement, and perhaps revere 
them as displaying the marks of profound genius. But the 
trick of such a wisdom is as readil}^ learned as it is easily 
practised ; its repetition is as insufferable as the repetition of 
a detected feat of legerdemain. This method of affixing to 
ever}' thing heavenly and earthl}', to all natm^al and intellec- 
tual forms, the two determinations of the universal scheme, 
makes the universe like a grocer's shop, in which a row of 
closed jars stand with their labels pasted on them. 

The special object of the Plienomeyiology was to establish 
absolute knowledge, as Hegel apprehended it, upon the essen- 
tial nature of consciousness as the highest stage of conscious- 
ness itself. Hegel furnishes in this work a history of the 
phenomenal consciousness (whence its title), a development 
of the formative epochs of the consciousness in its progress 
to philosophical knowledge. The inner development of con- 
sciousness consists in this, viz., that the peculiar condition in 
which it finds itself becomes objectified (or conscious), and 
through this knowledge of its own being the consciousness 
rises to a higher state. The '•^Phenomenology''' seeks to 
show how, and out of what necessity the consciousness ad- 
vances from step to step, from potentiahty to being x>er se, 
from being to knowledge. The author begins with immediate 
consciousness as the lowest step. He entitled this section : 
^''Sensuous Certainty^ or the This and the Opinion.'" At this 
stage the question is asked the Ego : w^hat is this., or what is 
here? and it answers, e.g.., the tree; and to the question, 
w^hat is noio ? it answers now is the night. But if wx turn 
ourselves around, here is not a tree but a house ; and if we 
write down the second answer, and look at it again after a 
little time, we find that noio is no longer night but mid-day. 
The this becomes, therefore, a not-this, i.e., a universal. And 
very naturally ; for if I say : this piece of paper, 3'et each 
and ever}' paper is a this piece of paper, and I have only said 
the universal. By such inner dialectic the whole field of the 
immediate certainty of the sense in perception is gone over. 



396 A HISTOHY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

In this wa}' — since every formative step (every stage) of the 
consciousness of the philosophizing subject is involved in 
contradictions, and is carried b}' this immanent dialectic to a 
higher form of consciousness — this process of development 
goes on till the contradiction is destroj^ed, i.e., till all strange- 
ness between subject and object disappears, and the mind 
rises to a perfect self-knowledge and self-certainty. To 
characterize briefly the different steps of this process, we 
might say that the consciousness is first found as a certainty 
of the sense, or as the this and the opinion; next as percep- 
tion, which apprehends the objective as a thing with its prop- 
erties ; and then as understanding, i.e., apprehending the 
objects as being reflected in itself, or distinguishing between 
power and expression, essence and manifestation, outer and 
inner. P^rom this point the consciousness, which has only 
recognized itself, its own pure being in its objects and their 
determinations, and for which therefore every other thing 
than itself has, as such, no significance, becomes the self- 
identical Ego, and rises to the truth and certaint}^ of itself, to 
self-consciousness. The self-consciousness become universal 
self-consciousness or reason, now traverses also a series of 
development-steps, until it manifests itself as spirit, as the 
reason which, in accord with all rationality, and satisfied with 
the rational w^orld without, extends itself over the natural and 
intellectual universe as its kingdom, in which it finds itself at 
home. Mind now passes through its stages of unconstrained 
moralit}', culture and refinement, ethics and the ethical view 
of the world to religion ; and religion itself in its perfection, 
as revealed religion becomes absolute knowledge. At this 
last stage being and thought are no more separate, being is 
no longer an object for thought, but thought itself is the ob- 
ject of thought. Science is nothing other than the true 
k'nowlcdge of the mind concerning itself. In the conclusion 
of the '•^Phenomenology ^'' Hegel casts the following retrospect 
on the coui'se which lie has laid down: "The goal which is 
to be reached, viz., absolute knowledge, or the mind which 



HEGEL. 397 

knows itself as mind, has for its course the exposition of 
minds as they are in themselves and achieve the organization 
of their empire. These elements are preserved, and furnished 
to us either by history, where we look at the side of the 
mind's free existence as it accidentally appears, or b}' the sci- 
ence of phenomenal knowledge, where we look at the side of 
the mind's ideal organization. These two sources taken to- 
gether, as ideal history, give us the real histor}' and the true 
being of the absolute spirit, the actuality, truth, and certainty 
of his tlu'one, without which he were lifeless and alone ; only 
' from the cup of this kingdom of minds does there stream 
forth for him his infinitude.' " 

On the other hand the progress of the Phenomenology is 
not strictly scientific. It is the first genial application of the 
*' absolute method," suggestive in its criticism of the forms 
of phenomenal knowledge, but arbitrar}^ in the arrangement 
and treatment of the abundant dialectical and historical mate- 
rial with which it deals. 



SECTION XLV. 

HEGEL. 

George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel was born at Stutt- 
gart, on the 27th of August, 1770. In his eighteenth 3'ear he 
entered the university of Tubingen, in order to devote him- 
self to the study of theology. During his course of study 
there, he attracted no marked attention ; Schelling, who was 
his junior in j^ears, shone far beyond all his cotemporaries. 
After leaving Tubingen, he took a situation as private tutor, 
first in Switzerland, and afterwards in Frankfort-on-the-Main 
till 1801, when he settled dow/i at Jena. At first he was re- 
garded as a disciple and defender of Schelling's philosophj^, 
and as such he wrote in 1801 his first minor treatise on the 



398 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

^''Difference between the Philosophical Systems of Fichte cind 
SchelUng." Soon afterwards he became associated with Schel- 
ling in publishing the " Critical Journal of Philosophy^"" 
1802-3, for which he furnished a number of important arti- 
cles. His labors as an academical teacher met at first with 
but little encouragement. Yet in 1805 he became professor 
in the universit}', though the political catastrophe in which 
the count r}' was soon afterwards involved, deprived him of 
the place. Amid the cannonade of the battle of Jena, he 
finished the ^^Phenomenology of Mind.,'' his first great and 
independent work, the crown of his Jena labors. He was 
subsequent!}' in the habit of calling this book, which appeared 
in 1807, his " vo3'age of discover\\" From Jena, Hegel for 
want of other means of subsistence went to Bamberg, where 
for two years he was editor of a political journal published 
there. In the fall of 1808, he became rector of the gj'mna- 
sium at Xuremberg. In this situation he wrote his Logic, 
1812-16. All his works were produced slowl}', and he first 
properl}' began his literar}' activity as Schelling finished his. 
In 1816, he received a call to a professorship of philosophy 
at Heidelberg, where in 1817 he published his ^^ Encyclopcedia 
of the Philosophiccd Sciences " in which for the first time he 
expounded his system as a whole. But his peculiar fame, 
and his far-reaching activity, dates properly from his call to 
Berlin in 1818. It was at Berlin that he surrounded himself 
with an extensive and very actively scientific school, and 
through his connection with the Prussian government gained 
great political influence and acquired a reputation for his 
philosoph}', as the philosophy of the vState, though this neither 
speaks favorabl}' for its inner purity, nor its moral credit. 
Yet in his '•^Philosophy of Eights" which appeared in 1821. 
Hegel does not reject the fundamental principles of modern 
political hfe ; he declares in favor of popular representation, 
freedom of the press, and puljjicity of judicial proceedings, 
trial by jury, and an administrative independence of corpo- 
rations. 



HEGEL. 399 

In Berlin, Hegel gave lectures upon almost every branch 
of pMlosophj^, and these have been published by his disciples 
and friends since his death. His manner as a lecturer was 
hesitating, clumsy, and unadorned, but was still not without 
a peculiar attraction as the immediate expression of profound 
thoughtfulness. His social intercourse was more with the 
uncultii^ated than with the learned ; he was not fond of shin- 
ing as a genius in social circles. In 1829 he became rector 
of the universitj^, an office which he administered in a more 
practical manner than Fichte had done. Hegel died of the 
cholera, Nov. 14, 1831, the anniversary of Leibnitz's death. 
He rests in the same churchyard with Solger and Fichte, near 
by the latter, and not far from the former. His writings and 
lectures form eighteen volumes which have appeared since 
1832 ; Yol. I. Minor Articles; II. Phenomenology ; III.-V. 
Logic; VI., VH. Encyclopcedia ; YIII. Philosophy of Rights ; 
IX. Philosophy of History ; X. Esthetics; XI., XII. Philoso- 
phy of Religion; XHI.-XV. History of Philosophy ; XVI.- 
XVin. Miscellanies. His life has been written by Rosenkranz. 

The division of the Hegelian system is, in consequence of 
the course which thought pm^sues in it, thi'eefold : (1) The 
development of those piu-e conceptions or determinations of 
thought, which lie at the basis of all natural and intellectual 
life ; in other words, the logical unfolding of the absolute, — 
the Science of Logic. (2) The development of the real world 
or of nature, — the Philosophy of Nature. (3) The develop- 
ment of the ideal world, or of mind as it shows itself con- 
cretel}' in rights, morals, the state, art, rehgion, and science, 
— Philosophy of Mind. These three parts of the system rep- 
resent the three elements of the absolute method, position, 
negation, and the unity of both. The absolute is at fii'st 
pure, and immaterial thought ; second!}', it is differentiation 
of the pure thought or its diremption in space and time, — 
nature ; thirdly, it returns from this self-estrangement to it- 
self, destroys the differentiation of nature, and thus becomes 
actual self-knowing thought or mind. 



400 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

I. Science of Logic. — The Hegelian logic is the scientific 
exposition and development of the pm-e conceptions of rea- 
son, those conceptions or categories which lie at the basis of 
all thought and being, and which determine subjective knowl- 
edge as truly as the}' form the indwelling soul of the objective 
reality ; in a word, those ideas in which the ideal and the real 
have their point of coincidence. The domain of logic, sa3's 
Hegel, is the truth, as it is unveiled in its native character. 
It is as Hegel himself figuratively expresses it, the rei^resen- 
tation of God as he is in his eternal being, before the creation 
of the world or a finite mind. In this respect it is, to be sure, 
a domain of shadows ; but these shadows are, on the other 
hand, those simple essences freed from all sensuous matters, 
in whose diamond net the whole universe is constructed. 

Different philosophers had already made a thankworthy be- 
ginning towards collecting and examining the pure concep- 
tions of the reason, as Aristotle in his categories, Wolff in his 
ontolog}", and Kant in his transcendental analj^tic. But they 
had neither completely collected, nor critically sifted, nor de- 
rived them from one principle, but had only taken them up 
empirically, and treated them lexicological^. But in opposi- 
tion to this course, Hegel attempted, (1) to make a complete 
collection of these notions ; (2) to critically sift them {i.e., to 
exclude every thing but pure thought) ; and (3) — which is 
the most characteristic peculiaritj" of the Hegelian logic — to 
derive these dialecticall}' from one another, and carry them out 
to an internallj'-connected sj^stem of pure reason. Fichte 
had already claimed that the reason must deduce the whole 
S3'stem of knowledge purely from itself, without taking any 
thing for granted. Hegel holds fast to this thought but in an 
objective wa3\ He does not begin by setting up certain high- 
est principles in which all further development is implicite 
contained, and which serves, therefore, merely for their closer 
determination, without any actual progress of thought. But 
starting with the simplest conception of reason, that of pure 
being, which needs no farther establishing, he seeks from this, 



HEGEL. 401 

b}' advancing from one conception ever to another and a 
richer one, to deduce the TN^hole system of pure rational 
knowledge. The lever of this development is the dia- 
lectical method. 

All position, says Hegel, is negation ; every notion has in 
itself the opposite of itself, and is thus led foi-ward to its 
own negation, — passes over into its opposite. All negation 
also is position, affii^mation. If a conception is negated, the 
result is not the pure nothing, — a pure negative, but a con- 
crete positive ; there results a new conception whose signifi- 
cance is increased by the negation of the preceding one. 
The negation of unit}', e.^., is the conception of multi- 
plicity. In this way Hegel makes negation a vehicle for dia- 
lectical progress. Every preA'iousl}^ posited conception is 
negated, and from its negation a higher and richer conception 
is gained. This method, which is at the same time anal3'tica.l 
and synthetical, Hegel has carried tlnrough the whole system 
of knowledge. 

"We now proceed to a brief survey of the Hegelian Logic. 
It is di^dded into tln^e parts ; the doctrine of heincj^ the doc- 
trine of essence^ and the doctrine of the notion. 

1. The DocTRixE OF Being. (1) Quality. — Science be- 
gins with the immediate and indeterminate conception of 
beiiig. This, in its want of content and emptiness, is nothing 
more than a pure negation, a notJiing. These two conceptions 
are thus as absolutely identical as they are absolutely opposed ; 
each of the two disappears immediately in its contrary-. This 
oscillation of the two is the -puie becoming^ which, if it be a 
transition from nothing to being, we call beginning, or, in the 
reverse case, we call it ceasing. The still and simple precipi- 
tate of this process of beginning to be and ceasing to be, is 
existence {Daseyn) . Existence is being with a detenninate- 
ness, or quality; more closel}', it is reality or limited exist- 
ence. Limited existence excludes every other from itself. 
This reference to itself, which is seen through its negative re- 
lation to every other, we call being per se {Filrsichseyn) . 



402 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

Being per se, Tvhich refers itself onl}' to itself, and repels everv 
other from itself, is the one. But, by means of this repelling, 
the one posits immediatel}' many ones. But the man}- ones 
are not distinguished from each other. One is what the other 
is. The man}' are therefore one. But the one is just as truly 
the manifold. For its exclusion is the positing of its con- 
trary, or it posits itself thereby as manifold. B3' this dialec- 
tic of attraction and reimlsion^ quality passes over into quan- 
tity : for indifference in respect of distinction or qualitative 
determinateness is quantity. 

(2) Quantity. — Quantity is determinateness in magnitude, 
which, as such, is indifferent in respect of qualit}' . In so far 
as the magnitude contains many ones distinguishably within 
itself, it is a discrete^ or has the element of discretion ; but 
on the other hand, in so far as the many ones are similar, 
and the magnitude is thus without distinction, it is continu- 
ous, or has the element of continuity. Each of these two 
determinations is at the same time identieal with the other ; 
discretion cannot be conceived without continuity, nor con- 
tinuity without discretion. The existence of quantity, or 
limited quantit}', is the quantum. The quantum has also mani- 
folduess and unity in itself; it is the enumeration of the 
unities, z.e., number. Corresponding to the quantum or the 
extensive magnitude, is the intensive magnitude or degree. 
With the conception of degree, so far as degree is simple de- 
terminateness, quantity approaches quality agahi. The unity 
of quantit}' and quality is measure. 

(3) The measure is a qualitative quantum, a quantum on 
which the qualit}' is dependent. An example of this quanti- 
tative limitation as actually determining the qualit}' of a defi- 
nite object, is the temperature of water, which decides whether 
the water shall remain water or turn to ice or steam. Here 
the quantum of heat actuall}' constitutes tlie quality of the 
water, (^ualit}' and (juantity are, therefore, to be conceived 
as perpetually interchanging determinations in a being, in a 
thirds which is itself distinct from its immediate quality and 



HEGEL. 403 

quantit}-. This quality which is independent of immediate 
being, this negation of all immediateness, is the essence. 
Essence is being in se, being divided in itself, a self-separa- 
tion of being. Hence the twofoldness of all determinations 
of essence. 

2. The Doctrine of Essence. — (1) The essence as such. 
The essence as reflected being is reference to itself only as it 
is a reference to something other. We apply to this being 
the term reflected analogously with the reflection of light, 
w^hich, when it falls on a muTor, is thrown back by it. 4s 
now the reflected light is, through its reference to another, 
something mediated or posited, so the reflected being is that 
which is shown to be mediated or gi'ounded through another. 
From the fact that philosoph}' makes its problem to know the 
essence of things, the immediate being of things is represented 
as a covering or curtain behind which the essence is concealed. 
If, therefore, we speak of the essence of an object, the imme- 
diate being standing over against the essence (for without this 
the essence cannot be conceived) , is reduced to a mere nega- 
tive, to an appearance. The being appears in the essence. 
The essence is, therefore, the being as appearance in itself. 
The essence when conceived in distinction from the appear- 
ance, gives the conception of the essential^ and that which 
onl}' appears in the essence, is the essenceless, or the unes- 
sential. But since the essential has a being only in distinc- 
tion from the unessential, it follows that the latter is essential 
to the former, which needs the unessential just as much as the 
unessential needs it. Each of the two, therefore, appears in 
the other, or there takes place between them a reciprocal refer- 
ence which we call reflection. We have, therefore, to do in 
this whole sphere with determinations of reflection, with deter- 
minations, each one of which refers to the other, and cannot 
be conceived without it (e.(/., positive and negative, ground 
and sequence, thing and properties, content and form, power 
and expression) . We have, therefore, in the development of 
the essence, those same determinations which we found in the 



404 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

development of being, onh^ no longer in an immediate, but in 
a reflected form. Instead of being and nothing, we have now 
the forms of the positive and negative ; instead of the there- 
existent (Daseyn), we now have existence. 

Essence is reflected being, a reference to self, which, how- 
ever, is mediated through a reference to something other 
which appears in it. This reflected reference to self we call 
identity (which is unsatisfactorily and abstracted!}^ expressed 
in the so-called first principle of thought, that A = A) . As 
a reference to self which is at the same time a distinction 
from self, this identit}^ contains essentiall}* the determination 
of difference. Immediate and external diflference is diversity. 
Essential difference, the diff'erence in itself, is antithesis (posi- 
tive and negative). The self-opposition of the essence is con- 
tradict ioji. The antithesis of identit}" and distinction is 
reconciled in the conception of the gi'ound. Since now the 
essence distinguishes itself from itself, we have the essence 
as identical with itself or the ground, and secondl}', the es- 
sence as distinguished from itself or the consequent. In the 
categor}' of ground and consequent the same thing, i.e., the 
essence, is twice posited ; the grounded and the ground are 
one and the same content, which makes it diflScult to define 
the ground except through the consequent, or the consequent 
except through the ground. The two can, therefore, be di- 
vided only by a powerful abstraction ; but because the two 
are identical, it is peculiarly a formalism to appl}^ this cate- 
gory. If reflection would inquire after a ground, it is be- 
cause it would see the thing as it were in a twofold relation, 
once in its immediateness, and then as posited through a 
ground. 

(2) Essence and Phenomenon. — The j>/iC?io??if7?o?i is the 
appearance which the essence fills, and which is hence no longer 
essenceless. There is no appearance without essence, and 
no essence which ma}' not enter into phenomenon. It is one 
and the same content which at one time is taken as essence, 
and at another as phenomenon. In the phenomenal essence 



HEGEL. 405 

we recognize the positive element which has hitherto been 
called ground, but which we now name content^ and the nega- 
tive element /o?'7?i. Ever}' essence is a unity of content and 
form, I.e., it exists. In distinction from immediate being, we 
call that being which has proceeded from some ground, exist- 
ence, i.e., grounded being. When we view the essence as 
existing, we call it thing. In the relation of a thing to its 
properties we have a repetition of the relation of form and 
content. The properties show us the thing in respect of its 
form, but it is properly thing only in respect of its content. 
The relation between the thing and its properties is commonly 
indicated by the verb to have {e.g., the thing has properties), 
in order to distinguish between the two. The essence as a 
negative reference to itself, and as repelling itself from itself 
in order to a reflection in an alterum, is poicer and expression. 
In this category, as in all the other categories of essence, one 
and the same content is posited twice. Power can onlj^ be 
explained from expression, and expression only from power ; 
consequently every explanation of which this categorj^ avails 
itself, is tautological. To regard power as uncognizable, is 
only a self-deception of the understanding respecting its own 
acts. — A higher expression for the categorj^ of power and 
expression is the category of inyier and outer. The latter 
category stands higher than the former, because power needs 
some solicitation to express itself, but the inner is the essence 
spontaneously manifesting itself. Both of these, the inner 
and the outer, are also identical ; neither is without the other. 
That, e.g., which the man is internallj^ in respect of his char- 
acter, is he also external!}" in his action. The truth of this 
relation will be, therefore, the identity of inner and outer, of 
essence and phenomenon, viz. : — 

(3) Actuality. — Actuaht}^ must be added as a third to 
being and existence. In the actualit}^, the phenomenon is a 
complete and adequate manifestation of the essence. The 
true actualit}" is, therefore (in opposition to possibility and con- 
tingency) , a necessary being, a rational necessity. The well- 



40G A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

known Hegelian sentence that ever}^ thing actual is rational, 
and eveiy thing rational is actual, is seen in this apprehension 
of "actualit}'" to be a simple tautolog3^ The necessar}-, 
when posited as its own ground, identical with itself, is sub- 
stance. The phenomenal side, the unessential in the sub- 
stance, and the contingent in the necessarj^, are accidents. 
These are no longer related to the substance, as the phenome- 
non to the essence, or the outer to the inner, i.e., as an ade- 
quate manifestation ; thej' are onty transitory affections of 
the substance, accidental!}' changing phenomenal fonns, like 
waves on the surface of the sea. The}^ are not produced by 
the substance, but rather disappear in it as their ground. The 
relation of substance leads to the relation of cause. In the 
relation of causality there is one and the same thing posited 
on the one side as cause, and on the other side as effect. The 
cause of warmth is warmth, and its effect is again warmth. 
Effect is a higher conception than accidence, since it actually 
stands over against the cause, and the cause itself passes 
over into effect. So far, however, as each side in the relation 
of causalit}' presupposes the other, we shall find the true rela- 
tion one in which each side is at the same time cause and 
effect, i.e., reciprocal action. Reciprocitj^ is a higher relation 
than causalit}', because there is no pure causality. There is 
no action without counteraction. We leave the province of 
essence with the category of reciprocal action. All the cate- 
gories of essence had shown themselves as a duplex of two 
sides, but when we come to the categor}^ of reciprocal action, 
the opposition between cause and effect is destroyed, and they 
meet together ; unity thus takes again the place of dui^licit}'. 
We have, therefore, again a being which dirempts itself into 
different self-subsistent factors, which are, however, immedi- 
atel}' identical with it. This unit}' of the immediateness of 
being with the self-diremption of the essence is the notion. 

3. TiiK Doctuinp: of tiir Notion. — The notion is that 
in the other which is identical with itself. It is the substan- 
tial totality whose moments (singular, particular) are them- 



HEGEL. 407 

selves the whole (the universal) , — a totalit}' which not oxAj 
allows freedom to the difference, but reduces it again to unity 
in itself. The notion is (a) subjective, the unity of a mani- 
fold for itself, posited as form in abstraction from matter. 
(5) It is objectivlt}^, — the notion in the form of immediate- 
ness, as the external unity of independent existences, (c) 
It is the Idea, the notion, which is itself objective, and re- 
duces objective existence to a pure unitj^ with itself, and 
which is no less immanent in the object than itself existent 
as the punctual unity of all reahty. 

(1) Tlie subjective notion contains the elements of uni- 
versality (self-identity in the difference), particularity (the 
difference which remains identical with the universal), and 
singularity (the self-subsistent being which unites in itself 
the universal and the particular, the genus and the species) . 
The uniA^ersal, independentl}^ expressed, is the notion as such. 
This one-sidedness is removed b}' the expression of the uni- 
versal as actuall}' inherent in a singular, as the predicate of a 
subject, or in the judgment. The judgment states the iden- 
tity of the singular with the universal, and therefore the 
diremption of the universal into independent indi\'idual3 
which are identical with it, — the self-sundering of the no- 
tion. In the judgment the notion appears not as a mere 
abstraction, like substance, cause, and force ; but as con- 
crete, as immanent in individual existences, and maintaining 
a definite realit^^ in a world of such. The one-sidedness of 
the judgment, as positing in itself the immediate identit}* of 
the individual and the universal, and hence, in reality, the 
separation of the two (the universal being more extensive 
than the individual, and the individual more concrete than 
the universal) is removed in the syllogism. In the s3'llogism 
the universal and the indimlual are mediated through the par- 
ticular which appears as a notion intermediate between both. 

The syllogism, therefore, exhibits the universal as reahzed 
in the individual by means of its particularization ; or the 
singular as existing in the universal thi'ough the mediation 



408 A HISTOKY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

of the particular. The S3'llogism first complete^ expresses 
the nature of the notion, as being the differentiation of itself 
into a manifold, in which the singular through its particularit}^ 
is as completelj^ opposed to the universal, as it is joined to 
the universal through its identity with it. According to what 
precedes, the notion is not merelj^ subjective, but possesses 
realit}' in the totalit}' of being comprehended under it. Thus 
considered it is the objective notion. 

(2) Objectivity is not being in general, but being which 
is complete in itself and ideally determined. Its first form 
is mechanism^ the co-existence of independent individuals, 
which, though indifferent to one another, are held together in 
the unity of a whole (aggregate) by some common bond. 
This indifference is removed in chemism, which is the re- 
ciprocal attraction, interpenetration, and neutralization of 
the independent individuals, which thus constitute a unit3\ 
This unity, however, is onty the negative resolution of indi- 
viduals in a whole. The tlnrd form of objectivit}^ is teleology, 
the end (corresponding to the s3'llogism), the notion which 
realizes itself, which reduces being to a mean for itself, and 
which preserves and completes itself in the process of the 
removal of the independence of the thing. The defect in the 
notion of end, or design, is that it is still in opposition to 
objectivit}^ as though this latter were something foreign 
to it. But when this defect is corrected there arises the 
conception of the end as immanent in objectivit3% — of the 
notion which finds its own completion in objectivity, inter- 
penetrating it and realizing itself in it ; or, in other words, 
tlie Idea. 

(3) The Idea is the highest logical definition of the abso- 
lute. It is neither merel^^ subjective nor merely objective, 
])ut it is the notion which is immanent in the object, which 
allows the object complete independence, yet retains it just 
as completel}' in unity with itself. Its immediate form is 
life, organization, the immediate unity of the object with the 
notion which interpenetrates it as its soul^ as the principle 



HEGEL. 409 

of vitality. The nation, however, is not here at once posited 
for itself. The Idea as such, in contradistinction from the 
object, is cognition; the notion finding itself again in the 
object (idea of the true) , and realizing itself in objectivity in 
order to remove the independence of the object, to reduce the 
real to conformity with the notion (idea of the good) . This 
opposition of the Idea and the object is, however, one-sided. 
Cognition and action presuppose necessarily the identity' 
of subjective and objective being. The supreme notion is, 
therefore, the Absolute Idea, the unity of life and cognition, 
the self-knowing and inteUigentlj^ realized universal which is 
infinitel}^ actual, 3Tt distinguishes itself from this its immedi- 
ate actualit}'. 

The Idea realizing itself in immediate actuality is nature. 
As returning from nature to itself, and consciously closing 
itself together with itself, it is spirit. 

II. The Science of Nature. — Nature is the Idea in the 
form of differentiation, the notion which has advanced from its 
logical abstraction to real particularization, and has there- 
fore become external to itself. The unit}- of the notion is 
therefore concealed in nature, and since philosoph}' makes it 
its problem to seek out the intelligence which is hidden in 
nature, and to follow out the jDrocess b}- which nature loses its 
own character and becomes mind, it should not forget that 
the essence of nature consists in being which has externalized 
itself, and that the products of nature neither have a reference 
to themselves, nor correspond to the notion, but grow up 
in unrestrained and unbridled contingenc}'. Nature is a bac- 
chanalian god who neither bridles nor checks himself. It 
therefore represents no intelligible succession, rising ever in 
regular order, but, on the contrar}', it ever}' where obliterates 
all essential limits by its doubtful structures, which alwa3's 
def}^ ever}' fixed classification. Because it is thus impossible 
for nature to retain the strict determinations of the notion, 
the philosoph}^ of nature is forced at every point, as it were, 
to capitulate between the world of concrete indi\'idual struc- 
tures, and the regulative of the speculative idea. 
J8 



410 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

The philosophy of nature has its beginning, its course, and 
its end. It begins with the first or immediate determination 
of nature, with the abstract universalitj' of its being exti^a se, 
space and matter ; its end is the disscA^ering of the mind from 
nature in the form of a rational and self-conscious individual- 
it}', — man ; the problem which it has to solve is, to show the 
intermediate links between these two extremes, and to follow 
out successive^ the increasingi}- successful struggles of 
natm^e to raise itself to self-consciousness in man. In this 
process, nature passes through thi'ee principal stages. 

1. Mechanics, or matter and the ideal sj^stem of matter. 
Matter is the being extra se of natm-e, in its most universal 
form. Yet it shows at the outset that tendency to being jjer 
se which forms the guiding thread of natural philosophy, — 
gi^avit}'. Gra"s4ty is the being in se of matter ; it is the desire 
of matter to come to itself, and shows the first trace of 
subjectivit3\ The centre of gravit}^ of a body is the one which 
it seeks. This same tendency' toward the reduction of multi- 
plicit}' to being pe?- se lies at the basis of the solar sj^stem and 
of universal gravitation. The centraht}' which is the funda- 
mental conception of gi'avit}^, becomes here a system, which 
is in fact a rational sj'stem, so far as the form of the orbit, 
the rapidit}' of motion, or the time of revolution may be 
referred to mathematical laws. 

2. Physics. — But matter possesses no individualit3\ 
Even in astronom}' it is not the bodies themselves, but only 
their geometrical relations which interest us. We have here at 
the outset to treat of quantitative and not 3'et of qualitative 
determinations. Yet in the solar S3'stem, matter has found its 
centre, itself. Its abstract and hollow being in se has resolved 
itself into form. Matter now, as possessing a qualit}^, is an 
object of j9//?/.s/c5. In physics we have to do with matter which 
has particularized itself into a bod}', into an individualit}'. 
To this province belongs inorganic nature, its forms and re- 
ciprocal references. 

3. Organics. — Inorganic nature, which was the object of 



HEGEL. 411 

ph3^sics, destroj^s itself in the chemical process. In the 
chemical process, the inorganic body loses all its properties 
(cohesion, color, lustre, resonance, transparency, &c.), and 
thus shows the evanescence of its existence and that relati^dty 
which is its being. This chemical process is overcome by the 
organic, the vital processes of nature. True, the living bod}' 
is ever on the point of passing over to the chemical process ; 
oxygen, hj'drogen, and salts are always entering into a living 
organism, but their chemical action is always overcome ; the 
living bod}' resists the chemical process till it dies. Life is 
self-preservation, self-end. While therefore nature in phj'sics 
had risen to individuality, in organics, it progresses to sub- 
jectivity. The idea, as life, presents itself in three stages. 

(1) The general image of life in geological organism, or the 
mineral kingdom. Yet the mineral kingdom is the result, 
and the residuum of a process of life and formation already 
passed. The primitive rock is the stiffened crj'stal of life, 
and the geological earth is a giant corpse. The present life 
which produces itself eternall}" anew, breaks forth only as the 
first movement of subjectivit}'. 

(2) In the organism of plants or the vegetable kingdom. 
The plant rises indeed to a formative process, to a process of 
assimilation and reproduction. But it is not 3'et a totality 
perfectly organized in itself. Each part of the i3lant is the 
whole individual, each twig is the whole tree. The parts are 
related indifferently to each other ; the branch can become a 
root, and the root a branch. The plant, therefore, does not 
3^et attain a true being in se of individuality ; for, in order 
that this ma}^ be attained, an absolute unit}' of the individual 
is necessary. This unity, which constitutes an individual and 
concrete subjectivity, is first seen in, — 

(3) The animal organism, the animal kingdom. An unin- 
terrupted intussusception, free motion, and sensation, are 
first found in the animal organism. In its higher forms we 
find internal warmth and a voice. In its highest form, man, 
nature, or rather the spirit which works through nature, ap- 



412 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

prebends itself as conscious individualit}^ as Ego. The spirit 
thus become a free and rational self, bas now completed its 
self-emancipation from nature. 

III. Philosophy of Mixd. 1. The Subjective Mind. — 
The mind is the truth of nature ; the removal of its estrange- 
ment, the identification of itself with itself. Its formal essence, 
therefore, is freedom, the possibilit}' of abstracting itself from 
every thing else ; its material essence is the capacity of mani- 
festing itself as mind, as a conscious rationalitj', — of positing 
the intellectual universe as its kingdom, and of building a 
structure of objective rationalit3\ In order, however, to know 
itself as the totalitj' of reason, — in order to posit nature more 
and more negativel}', the mind, like nature, must pass through 
a series of stages or emancipative acts. As it comes from 
nature and rises from its externality to being, per se, it is at 
first soul or spirit of nature, and as such, it is an object of 
antliropoJogy in a strict sense. As this spirit of nature, it 
sympathizes with the general planetaiy life of the earth, and 
is in this respect subject to diversit}^ of climate, and change 
of seasons and days ; it s^'mpathizes with the geographical 
portion of the world which it occupies, f.e., it is related to a 
diversit}^ of race ; still farther, it bears a national tj-pe, and 
is moreover determined b}' mode of life, formation of the 
bod}', etc., while these natural conditions work also upon its 
intelligent and moral character. Lasth^, we must here take 
notice of the wa}' in which nature has determined the individ- 
ual subject, ?.e., his natural temperament, character, idiosyn- 
cras}^ etc. To this belong the natural changes of life, age, 
sexual relation, sleep, and waking. In all this the mind is 
still buried in nature, and this middle condition between being 
per se and the sleep of nature, is sensation, the hollow forming 
of the mind in its unconscious and unenlightened {verstandlos) 
individiialit}'. A higher stage of sensation is feeling, ^■.e., 
sensation in se, where being per se appears ; feeling in its 
completed form is self-feeling. Since the subject, in self- 
feeling, is buried in the peculiarity of his sensations, but at 



HEGEL. 413 

the same time comprehends himself within himself, as a sub- 
jective unity, the self-feehng is seen to be the preUminaiy 
step to consciousness. The Ego now appears as the shaft in 
which all these sensations, representations, cognitions, and 
thoughts are preserved, which is with them all, and consti- 
tutes the centre in which they all come together. The mind 
as conscious, as a conscious being pe?' se, as Ego, is the object 
of the phenomenology of consciousness (which here within 
nan'ower limits, reappears as a division of psychology) . 

The mind was individual, so long as it was interwoven with 
nature ; it is consciousness or Ego when it has divested itself 
of nature. "When distinguishing itself from nature, the mind 
withdi-aws itself into itself, and that with which it was form- 
erly interwoven, and which gave it a peculiar (earthly, na- 
tional, &c.) determination, stands now distinct from it, as its 
external world (earth, people, &c.). The awaking of the 
Ego is thus the act b}' which the objective world, as such, is 
created ; while on the other hand, the Ego awakens' to a con- 
scious subjectivity only in the objective world, and in dis- 
tinction from it. The Ego, as contradistinguished from the 
objective world, is consciousness in the strict sense of the 
word. Consciousness becomes self-consciousness by passing 
thi'ough the stages of immediate sensuous consciousness, per- 
ception, and understanding, to the pure thought of person- 
ahty, to the knowledge of itself as a free Ego. Again, self- 
consciousness becomes universal or rational self-consciousness 
as follows : In its strivings to appropriate objectivit}' and ob- 
tain for itself recognition as a free subject, it falls in conflict 
with other self-consciousnesses, and begins a war of extermi- 
nation against them, but rises from this helium omnium contra 
omnes (the violent beginning of the state) , as common con- 
sciousness, as the discovery of the proper mean between 
command and obedience, i.e., as trulj' miiversal, rational self- 
consciousness. The rational self-consciousness is actuall}^ 
free, because it no longer comports itself toward others self- 
ishly, but recognizes the identity of others with itself; in 



414 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

others it beholds itself opposed to itself ; it emancipates itself 
from the limitation of its own natural Egohood. We have 
now mind as mind, divested of its naturalness and subjec- 
tivit}^, and as such, it is an object of Pneiimatology . 

Mind is at first theoretical mind, or intelligence, and then 
practical mind, or will. It is theoretical in that it has to do 
with the rational as something given, and now posits it as its 
own ; it is practical in that it immediately wills the subjective 
content (truth) , which it has as its own, to be freed from its 
one-sided subjective form, and transformed into an objective. 
The practical mind is, so far, the truth of the theoretical. 
The theoretical mind, in its way to the practical, passes 
through the stages of intuition, representation, and thought ; 
and the will on its side forms itself into a free will through 
impulse, desire, and inclination. The free will, as possessing 
existence, is the objective mind, right, and the state. In 
right, morals and the state, freedom, reason, the idea of the 
good are realized ; the rational will is brought to external 
objectivity, to existence in real universal forms of life (insti- 
tutions) . Every natural determination and impulse now be- 
comes moralized, and comes up to view again as ethical 
institute, as right and duty (the sexual impulse now appears 
as marriage and the family, and the impulse of revenge as 
civil punishment, &c.). 

2. The Objective Mind. — (1) The immediate objective 
being of the free will as actual, and in its freedom actually and 
universally (legally) recognized, is (legal) right. The individ- 
ual, so far as he is capable of rights, so far as he has rights and 
exercises them, is a person. The rule of right is, therefore, 
be a person and have respect to other persons. The person 
allows himself an external sphere for his freedom, a sub- 
stratum in which he can exercise his will : as property, pos- 
session. As a person I have the right of possession, the 
absolute right of appropriation, the right to cast my will 
over every thing, which thereby becomes mine. But I have 
equally the right to dispossess myself of my property in favor 



HEGEL. 415 

of another person. This happens m the case of possession 
through contract^ in which freedom, the right to dispose of 
property arbitrarily is first reahzed. The relation of contract 
is the first step towards the state, but only i\iQ first step, for 
if we should define the state as a compact of all with all, this 
would sink it in the category of private rights and private 
lDropert3\ It does not depend upon the will of the individual 
whether he will live in the state or not. The relation of 
contract refers to private property. In a contract, therefore, 
two wills merge themselves in a common will, which as such 
becomes a right. But just here lies also the possibility of a 
conflict between the individual will and the right or the uni- 
versal will. The separation of the two is a wrong (civil 
wrong, fraud, crime). This separation demands a recon- 
ciliation, a restoration of the right or the universal will from 
its momentary suppression or negation by the particular will. 
The right restoring itself in respect of the particular will, and 
establishing a negation of the wrong, is punishment. Those 
theories, which found the right of punishment in some end of 
warning or improvement, mistake the essence of punishment. 
Threatening, warning, &c., are finite ends, z.e., means, and 
moreover uncertain means : but an act of righteousness should 
not be made a means ; righteousness is not exercised in or- 
der that any thing other than itself shall be gained. The 
fulfihnent and self-manifestation of righteousness is absolute 
end, self-end. The particular views we have mentioned, can 
only be considered in reference to the mode of punishment. 
The punishment which is inflicted on a criminal, is Ms right, 
Ms rationality, Ms law, under which he should be subsumed. 
His act comes back upon himself. Hegel also defends capi- 
tal punishment, whose abolition seemed to him an untimel}^ 
sentimentalism. 

(2) The opposition of the universal and particular will 
transferred within the subject constitutes morality. In mor- 
ality the freedom of the will becomes a self-determination of 
the subject ; it is the negation of the externality of the (legal) 



416 A HISTOEY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

right, — the will turned back upon itself, and determining its 
acts in accordance with ends and its own conviction of right 
and duty. The moral standpoint is the standpoint of con- 
science, it is the right of the subjective will, the right of a free 
ethical decision. In the consideration of strict right, it is no 
inquiry what my principle or my view might be, but in moral- 
ity the question is at once directed towards the purpose and 
moving-spring of the will. Hegel calls this standpoint of 
moral reflection and of action determined in accordance with 
motives and dut}', — morality, in distinction from a substan- 
tial, unconditioned, and reflecting observance of ethical rules. 
This standpoint has three elements ; (1) the element of reso- 
lution, where we consider the inner determination of the act- 
ing subject, which allows an act to be ascribed only to me, 
and the blame of it to rest only on my will (imputation) ; (2) 
the element of purpose and well-being, in so far as I recognize 
the act and its consequence as mine alone, as inwardl}^ designed 
b}' me ; and in so far as I have the right to realize thi'ough m}^ 
act the object of m}^ deske (not to be sacrificed to abstract 
right) ; (3) the element of the good in so far as it is to be 
expected that the subjective will (just because being reflected 
in itself it is the deciding will) shall hold its subjective aims 
in harmony with the universal. The good is the unit}^ of the 
particular subjective will with the universal will, or with the 
notion of the will ; in other words, to will the rational is good. 
Opposed to this is evil, or the elevation of the subjective will 
above the universal, the attempt to set up the peculiar and 
individual choice as absolute ; in other words, to will the irra- 
tional is evil. 

(3) In moralit}' we had the good and the will standing 
abstractly- over against each other. The will as free is equally 
the possibilit3- of evil. The good is merely an ought-to-be, not 
yet an actuality. Moralit}^ is thus a one-sided standpoint. 
The higher concrete identit}^ of the good and the will, the 
union of subjective and objective good, is ethics. In ethics 
the good becomes an actuality ; it assumes the form of ethical 



HEGEL. 417 

institutions within which the will lives ; so that the good 
becomes for consciousness a second nature, and morality is 
converted into character, into sentiment and ethical principle. 

The ethical mind is seen at first immediatel}', or in a natural 
form, as marriage and the family. Three elements unite in 
maiTiage, which should not be separated, and which are so 
often and so wi'ongiy isolated. Marriage is (1) a sexual 
relation, and is founded upon a difference of sex, in which the 
ethical element is, that the subject instead of isolating him- 
self, finds his true being in his natm*al universality, in his 
relation to the species ; (2) it is a ci\al contract, particularly 
as regards communit}' of property ; (3) it is a spuitual com- 
munion of love and confidence. Yet Hegel laj-s no great 
stress upon subjective sentiment in concluding upon mamage, 
for a reciprocal affection will spring up in the married Hfe. It 
is more ethical when a determination to marr}' is fu'st, and a 
definite personal affection follows afterwards ; for marriage is 
most prominently duty. Hegel would, therefore, place the 
greatest obstacles in the way of a dissolution of marriage. He 
has also developed and described in other respects the nature 
of the family with a profound ethical feeling. 

When the famil}' becomes separated into a multitude of 
famihes, it is a civil society^ in which the members, though still 
independent indi-viduals, are bound in unity by then- wants, 
b}' the restrictions of law as a means of securit}^ for person 
and property, and by an outward administrative arrangement. 
Hegel distinguished civil societ}' from the state, in opposition 
to most modern theorists upon the subject, who, regarding it 
as the great end of the state to give securit}' of property and 
of personal freedom, reduce the state to a civil society'. But 
from the standpoint of civil society, which is a union from 
necessity and for the preservation of mutual rights, war, for 
example, is inconceivable. On the ground of cIaH society 
each one stands for himself, is independent, and makes him- 
self end, while every thing else is a means for him. But the 
state, on the contrar}^, knows no independent individuals, each 



418 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

one of whom ma}" regard and pursue only his own well-being ; 
but in the state, the whole is the end, and the individual is 
the means. — For the adminstration of justice, Hegel, in op- 
position to those of our time who deny the right of legislation, 
would have written and intelligible laws, which should be 
within reach of every one ; still farther, justice should be ad- 
ministered by a public trial b}^ jury. — In respect of the or- 
ganization of civil societ}^, Hegel expresses a great preference 
for corporate life. Sanctity of marriage, he says, and honor 
in corporations, are the two elements around which the disor- 
ganization of civil society turns. 

Civil society passes over into the state when the interest of 
the individual loses itself in the idea of an ethical whole. The 
state is the ethical idea actualized, it is the ethical mind as it 
rules over the action and knowledge of the individuals com- 
prehended in it. Finalty, states themselves, since they appear 
as individuals in an attracting or repelling relation to each 
other, represent, in their destin}^, in theu' rise and fall, the 
process of the world's history. 

In his apprehension of the state, Hegel approached very 
near the ancient notion, which merged the individual and the 
right of individuality wholly in the will of the state. He 
held fast to the omnipotence of the state in the ancient sense. 
Hence his opposition to modern liberalism, to the claims, 
criticisms, and assertions of superior wisdom on the part of 
individuals. The state is with Hegel the rational and ethical 
substance in which the individual has to live ; it is the exist- 
ing reason to which the individual has to submit himself with 
a free insight. He regarded a limited monarch}^ as the best 
form of government, after the manner of the English consti- 
tution, to which Hegel was especially inclined, and in refer- 
ence to which he uttered his well-known saying that the king 
was but the dot upon the i. There must be an individual, 
Hegel supposes, who can affirm for the state, who can prefix 
an " / wilV to the resolves of the state, and who can be the 
head of a formal decision. The personality of a state, he 



HEGEL. ■ 419 

says, " is only actual as a person, as monarch." Hence 
Hegel defends hereditary monarchy, but he places the no- 
bilit}" by its side as a mediating element between people and 
prince, — not, indeed, to control or limit the government, nor 
to maintain the rights of the people, but only that the people 
ma}" be sure that they are well governed, that the conscious- 
ness of the people may be with the government, and that the 
state may enter into the subjective consciousness of the 
people. 

States and the minds of individual races pour their currents 
into the stream of the world's llistor3^ The strife, the vic- 
tor}", and the subjection of the spu-its of individual races, and 
the passing over of the world spirit from one people to an- 
other, is the content of the world's histor}^ The develop- 
ment of the world's history is generally connected with some 
ruling race, which carries in itself the world spirit in its pres- 
ent stage of development, and in distinction from which the 
spirits of other races have no rights. Thus these race-spirits 
stand around the throne of the absolute spuit, as the execu- 
tors of its actualization, as the witnesses and adornment of 
its glory. 

3. The Absolute Mind. — Mind is absolute in so far as it 
returns from the sphere of objectivity to itself, to the ideaUty 
of cognition, to the knowledge of the Absolute Idea as the 
truth of all being. The subjugation of natural subjectivity 
through the observance of ethical and political laws, is the 
method by which the mind elevates itself to this pure free- 
dom, to the knowledge of its ideal nature as the absolute. 
The first stage of the absolute spirit is ar^, the immediate in- 
tuition of the Idea in objective actuality. The second is re- 
ligion^ the certainty of the Idea as superior to all immediate 
reality, as the absolute power of being which subordinates to 
itself every thing particular and finite. The third is philoso- 
phy^ the unity of the first two, the knowledge of the Idea as 
the absolute which is just as truly pure thought as it is imme- 
diately all reality. 



420 A HISTOHY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

(1) Art. — The absolute is immediatel}' present to the sen- 
suous intuition as the beautiful or as art. The beautiful is 
the appearance of the idea thi'ough a sensible medium (stone, 
color, tone, poetr}') ; it is the idea actuahzed in the form of a 
limited phenomenon. To the beautiful (and to its subordi- 
nate kinds, the simply beautiful, the sublime, and the comic) 
two factors alwa^'s belong, thought and matter ; but both 
these are inseparable from each other ; the matter is the outer 
manifestation of the thought, and should express nothing but 
the thought which insph'es it and shines thi'Ough it. The dif- 
ferent wa}'s in which matter and form are connected, furnish 
the ditferent forms of art. In the s^'mbolic form of art the 
matter preponderates ; the thought presses through it, and 
brings out the ideal oul^' with difficult}'. In the classic form 
of art, the ideal has attained its adequate existence in the 
matter ; content and form are absolutel}' suited to each other. 
Lastly-, in romantic art, the mind preponderates, and the mat- 
ter is a mere appearance and sign tln'ough which the mind 
everj'where breaks out, and struggles up above the material. 
The sj'stem of particular arts is connected with the different 
forms of art ; but the distinction of one particular art from 
another depends especialh' upon the difference of the ma- 
terial. 

(a) The beginning of art is Architecture. It belongs essen- 
tiall}- to the s3'mbolic form of art, since in it the sensible mat- 
ter far preponderates, and it first seeks the true conformity 
betw^een content and form. Its material is stone, which it 
fashions according to the laws of gravit}'. Hence it has the 
character of magnitude, of silent earnestness, of oriental sub- 
limit}'. 

{h) Sculpture. — The material of this art is also stone, but 
it advances from the inorganic to the organic. It gives the 
stone a bodil}' form, and makes it onl}' a vehicle of thought. 
In sculpture, the material, the stone, since it represents the 
bod}', that building of the soul, in its clearness and beauty, 
disappears wholl}' in the ideal ; there is nothing left of the 
material which docs not serve the idea. 



HEGEL. 



421 



(c) Painting. — This is pre-eminently a romantic art. It 
represents, as sculptm-e cannot do, the life of the soul, the 
look, the disposition, the heart. Its medium is no longer a 
coarse material substratum, but the colored surface, and the 
spmtual play of light and shade ; it gives the appearance only 
of complete spacial dhnension. Hence it is able to represent 
in a complete dramatic movement the whole scale of feelings, 
conditions of heart, and actions. 

(d) Music. — This has nothing to do "with relations of 
space. Its material is sound, the vibration of a sonorous 
bod}'. It leaves, therefore, the field of sensuous intuition, 
and works exclusivel}' upon sensation. Its sphere is the 
breast of the sensitive soul. Music is the most subjective art. 

(e) Lastly, in Poetry^ the tongue of art is loosed ; poetry 
can represent every thing. Its material is not the mere sound, 
but the sound as word, as the sign of a representation, as the 
expression of reason. But this material cannot be formed at 
random, but onl}' in verse according to certain rhythmical and 
musical laws. In poetry, aU other arts unite ; as epic, repre- 
senting in a pleasing and extended narrative the figurative 
history of races, it corresponds to the plastic arts ; as l^'ric, 
expressing some inner condition of soul, it corresponds to 
music ; as di'amatic poetr}-, exhibiting the struggles between 
characters acting out of directl}' opposite interests, it is the 
union of both these arts. 

(2) Philosophy of Religion. — Poetrj^ forms the transition 
from art to religion. In art the idea was present for the in- 
tuition, in religion it is present for conception. The content 
of every religion is the inward exaltation of the mind to the 
absolute, as the all- comprehending substance of existence 
which reconciles aU antitheses, — the conscious unity of the 
subject with God. All religions seek a union of the divine 
and the human. This was done in the crudest fonn b}' — 

(a) The natural religions of the oriental world. God is, 
with them, but a power of nature, a substance of nature, in 
comparison with which the finite and the individual disappear 
as nothing. 



422 A HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY. 

(b) A higher idea of God is attained bj' the religions of 
spu'itual individualit}^, in which the Deity is looked upon as 
subject, — as an exalted subjectivity^, full of power and wis- 
dom in Judaism, the religion of sublimity ; as a cu'cle of 
plastic divine forms in the Grecian religion, the religion of 
beauty ; as an absolute end of the state in the Roman rehgion, 
the religion of the understanding or of conformit}^ to design. 

(c) The revealed or Chiistian religion first establishes a 
positive reconciliation between God and the world, b}^ behold- 
ing the actual unity of the divine and the human in the per- 
son of Christ, the God-man, and apprehending God as the 
self-externalizing (incarnate) Idea, which from this externali- 
zation eternally retm'ns back into itself, i.e., as the triune 
God. The intellectual content of revealed religion, or of 
Christianit}', is thus the same as that of speculative philoso- 
ph}' ; the only difference being, that in the one case the con- 
tent is represented in the form of the representation, in the 
form of a histor}^ ; while, in the other, it appears in the form 
of the notion. Stripped of its form of religious representa- 
tion, we have now the standpoint of — 

(3) The Absolute Philosophy., or the thought knowing it- 
self as all truth, and reproducing the whole natural and intel- 
lectual universe from itself, having the sj^stem of philosophy 
for its development, — a closed circle of circles. 



With Schelling and Hegel closes the historj' of philosophy. 
The philosophical developments which have succeeded them, 
and which are partly a carrying out of then- S3^stems, and 
partly the attempt to lay a new basis for philosoph}^, belong 
to the present, and not j^et to history. 



APPENDIX. 
I. 

BE ACTION AGAINST HEGEL. 

THE claim of Hegelianism to be the completion of phi- 
losophy has not been historically justified. On the con- 
trary, the rejection of Hegel's theories by the scientific world 
has been complete and striking. Even before his death the 
opposing tendencies of the age, which the sudden and bril- 
liant success of his doctrines had rather hidden from sight 
than overcome, aided by numerous defections within the ranks 
of his own school, had materiall}' weakened his influence ; and 
the reaction thus begun, rapidl}' advanced until, within less 
than thii'ty 5^ears, his authority was almost whollj^ destroyed. 
To-day, although his indirect influence in Germany and else- 
where is still vast, but few of his doctrines are generally 
admitted to be vahd principles of science. 

The gi'ounds of this reaction are to be found, partly in the 
opposition of Hegehanism to the growing social, political, and 
rehgious radicalism of the present age ; but more fundamen- 
tally, in certain special internal weaknesses of that S3'stem 
itself. The most important of these are, in brief, the follow- 
ing two : (1) Hegel's philosophy was based upon a one-sided 
interpretation of Kant. In the Logil^ and jSfaturphilosophie, 
the ideahstic element of Kant's sj'stem, the apriority and 
spontaneitv' of pure thought, was made superior to the cor- 
responding reaUstic element, and posited as the ground from 
which this latter is to be logically deduced. But in this the 



424 APPENDIX. 

peculiar standpoint of Kant was altogether abandoned. For 
the entire significance of the Critique — if we are to believe 
Kant's own words — rests upon the fact that it posits these 
elements as coordinate, and their relation as that of recipro- 
cal determination. It was, therefore, as a result of the 
supremacy which Kant still maintained over the German 
mind, inevitable, that when the real antagonism between the 
two systems should be clearly appreciated, a reaction toward 
the true Kantian theory would set in, which would also pass 
bej'ond this to an extreme position on its realistic side. This 
has, in fact, occurred, and it is one of the prime causes of 
the downfall of the Hegelian philosophy. (2) The central 
doctrine of Hegelianism, viz., that knowledge is possible 
through pure thought alone (which was the immediate result 
of this subordination of Kant's realism to his idealism) , in- 
volved consequences which it is impossible for modern thought 
to admit. It involved, that is, on the one hand, the possi- 
bility of absolute knowledge, the possibility of realizing in 
thought the totality of those principles by means of which the 
essential being of all that is can be rendered intelligible and 
explicable ; and, on the other, as an obvious inference from 
this possibility, the assumption that not only can the physi- 
cal as well as the purely speculative sciences be determined 
a priori^ but that the same method is applicable in both cases. 
But the fi.rst of these consequences is not only antagonistic to 
the insuperable realistic prejudices of the human mind, but is 
also a contradiction of the fundamental principles upon which 
the development of modern thought, since the time of Des- 
cartes and Bacon, has proceeded ; while the falsity of the 
second is demonstrated by the history of the inductive sci- 
ences. It is, in fact, in this bold contradiction of the firmly 
established realism of modern thought, and especially of in- 
ductive science, that the chief cause of the reaction against 
Hegel is to ])c found. For the physical sciences the test of 
truth is conformity to the actual as determined by observation 
and experiment ; and it was the impossibility of .making 



EEACTION AGAINST HEGEL. 425 

Hegel's phj^sical theories conform to this test, that most clearl}' 
betrayed the inadequacy of his position. Other causes might 
be cited, but these two are in themselves a sufficient explana- 
tion of the anti-Hegelian movement. 

These grounds for the reaction against Hegel also explain 
the more important developments of thought which have fol- 
lowed it. Its immediate effect, in Germany, has been the 
introduction of the greatest confusion into philosophy, and an 
apparent suspension of all continuous development of specu- 
lative thought. The abandonment of Hegel meant logically-, 
the rejection, at least for the starting-point of philosophy, of 
those abstract conceptions whose logical connection had 
formed the ground of the entire development of idealistic 
speculation from Descartes to Hegel, and of which Hegelian- 
ism itself was the most perfect logical exposition. But when 
this standpoint was rejected no other historic tendency was 
left, except the empiricism of Locke, which the majorit}^ of 
Hegel's opponents were not prepared to adopt. Hence there 
resulted the widest individualism and eclecticism ; each phi- 
losopher developed for himself an independent standpoint, 
based upon some special line of inquiry which seemed to him 
to promise valuable results. Of the numerous theories which 
have thus arisen, many, even the most original, are closely con- 
nected with some one of the more prominent of the Pre- 
Hegelian systems, — especially with Plato, Aristotle, Bruno, 
Spinoza, or Leibnitz ; others are perpetuations, in special 
directions, of the doctrines of the Hegelian and Herbartian 
schools ; while others still are attempts to return to the criti- 
cal standpoint, or are expositions of empiricism and material- 
ism. In this chaos of opinions, however, certain lines of 
thought, closely connected, as has been said, with the reac- 
tion against Hegel, can be traced, which not only exhibit a 
logical and consecutive development, but also express very 
clearly the underlying tendencies of cotemporar}^ thought and 
formulate the problems of which the new epoch upon which 
philosophy is now entering must inevitably attempt the solu- 



426 APPENDIX. 

tion. Of these two will be brieflj^ expounded in the following 
sections. Thej^?'s^ originated in an attempt to construct a 
speculative sj'stem upon that part of Kant's theory which 
idealism rejected, ?'.e., upon the conception of a thing-in-itself. 
The thing-in-itself was posited by it as the absolutely real, as 
the ground of all being, and its relation to the subjective and 
objective world as that of substance to its accidents. In this 
it differs little from Spinozism. But in its discussion of this 
substance it advanced beyond the negative position of Spinoza, 
and treated it positive^ as a pure activity^ as Force. It thus 
makes explicit the idea of idll as not merely an ideal deter- 
mination of thought but as essentially the principle of reality 
in mind and natm-e, — an idea which may be taken as the 
central speculative conception of the present age. We have, 
then, given as the fundamental characteristic of this move- 
ment speculative realism, and on the problem of which it pro- 
poses the solution, the relation between the will as a conscious 
activity and that activity or force which constitutes the sub- 
stance of things. The second originated in that alliance 
between philosophical empiricism and physical science which 
began with Bacon, and which has resulted in the complete 
subordination of the former to the latter. It claims to limit 
all knowledge to the data of the sense, and therefore assumes 
toward all the higher problems of philosophy, the attitude of 
agnosticism. But the jjroblem it proposes is one of great 
speculative import, viz., the subsumption of the phenomena 
of mind under mechanical law^s correlative to the mechanical 
laws of the phenomena of matter ; in other words it asserts 
the conception of mechanical connection to be the starting- 
point of philosophy as well as of physics. Both these move- 
ments are, so far as they are yet developed, realistic and 
pantheistic (more strictl}' atheistic) ; and each is in a different 
way the logical opposite of Hegelianism, — the first, in that 
it exalts the thing-in-itself above the subject, and the will 
above the idea, and the second, in that it asserts the su- 
premacy of the mechanical relations of things over the ideal 



SCHOPENHAUEE. 427 

relations of thoughts. The first is represented by Schopen- 
hauer and Hartmann, The second, which is a general move- 
ment of the age, is most clearty stated by French and English 
thinkers, the most prominent of whom are Comte, J. S. 3IiU, 
and Spencer^ who reached their standpoint b}^ a logical pro- 
cession from Locke, and in entire independence of German 
philosoph3^ 

The interesting speculative attempt of the American phi- 
losopher, L. P. Hickok, to reconcile the idealism of Hegel 
with the mechanical realism of Spencer by means of the con- 
ception of substance as force, thus uniting in one the leading 
speculative dkections of the present age, will also be briefly 
noticed. 



II. 

SCHOPENHAUER. 

The attempt to introduce S3^stematic unity into Kant's 
philosophy by rejecting one or more of its contradictory ele- 
ments, was the starting-point of all subsequent speculative 
thought in German3^ By rejecting the thing-in-itself, and 
holding to the pure spontaneitj^ of the Ego as the only real- 
ity, J. G. Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel established a system 
of speculative idealism (c/. Sects. XLL, XLIII., XLIV., 
XLY.). On the other hand, by emphasizing the being of 
the object, Herbart developed an abstract realism (c/*. Sect. 
XLII.). A thh'd attempt to simplify Kant's theory, differ- 
ent from the Fichtian and Herbartian, 3'et closely allied to 
both, is that of AHhur Schopenhauer. Like the Wissen- 
schaftslehre, Schopenhauer's system is a subjective idealism, 
but differs from it in resting, not on the spontaneit}', but on 
the passivity of the subject. It is a sensuous rather than a 



428 APPENDIX. 

speculative idealism. On the other hand, it retains, in a 
modified form, the thing-in-itself, and arrives ultimately at 
a realism as rigid as that of Herbart. 

Schopenhauer was born in Danzig, Feb. 22, 1788. His 
father was one of the principle merchants of that city. His 
mother, Johanna Schopenhauer, was a woman of considera- 
ble intellectual power, the friend and favorite of Goethe, and 
was once famous as a novelist. In 1809, Schopenhauer 
matriculated in the medical faculty of the University of Got- 
tingen, and devoted himself to the stud}' of the sciences. 
Later he took up the studj^ of philosophj- under the direc- 
tion of the Kantian, G. E. Schulze, who advised him to study 
Plato and Kant, and avoid ever}- other philosopher, — " ad- 
vice which Schopenhauer never repented having followed." 
In 1811 he went to Berlin, having been attracted thither by 
the fame of J. G. Fichte, in whom, however, he was disap- 
pointed, being repelled b}' his mannerism and obscurit3\ He 
took his degree at Jena in 1813, presenting as his graduating 
thesis a treatise on The fourfold Root of the Principle of Suf- 
fcient Reason^ which is one of the best of his writings. The 
first part of his chief work, The World as Will and Repre- 
sentation^ appeared in 1819 ; to this a second part was added 
in 1844. Returning (1820) to Berlin, he lectured 2i?, privat- 
docent during one semester, but was overshadowed b}' the 
fame of Hegel and Schleiermacher who were then teaching in 
the universitv. On the approach of the cholera (1831) he 
went to Frankfort, where he passed the remainder of his life 
in retirement. He died on the 22d of September, at the 
age of sevent3'-two. In Schopenhauer's personal character 
there is little that is estimable. He was a man of great 
intellectual power, but of a gloom}' and passionate tempera- 
ment, which was intensified by an hereditar}^ tendency to 
lu'pochondria. His ill humor was also increased by the 
unmerited neglect with which all his works were, at first, 
received. During the last years of his life, however, the 
importance of his system was recognized, and he suddenly 



SCHOPENHAUER. 429 

became famous. His death, as he hhnself prophesied, was 
his apotheosis. As a thinker Schopenhauer ranks among 
the first of Post-Kantian philosophers, and as a writer, in 
perspicuit}^ and brilUancy of stj'le, he is not surpassed b}' 
any. (His other works are a Theory of Vision and Colors^ 
in which Goethe's attack upon the Newtonian theory is de- 
fended : Two Fundamental Problems of Ethics, and Parerga 
and Paralipomena.) 

Though professing to derive his philosophy directly from 
the Critique of Reason, Schopenhauer, like Fichte, subjects 
Kant's theor}' to a ver}' one-sided interpretation. According 
to him Kant's most important contribution to philosoph}' was 
the separation of phenomena from things-in-themselves. 
The universe in space and time is, he asserts, as such, noth- 
ing but a representation, possessing in itself no independent 
reality : it is only when it is perceived. For the phenomenal, 
however, as its source and substance, there must be admitted 
a noumenon, a thing-in-itself ; this was also the doctrine of 
Kant. But in the discussion of this thing-in-itself, says 
Schopenhauer, Kant made two radical mistakes, (a) He 
treats it realisticall}^ as an object-in-itself, as an objectively 
existing (particular) thing ; whereas, according to his own 
showing, both the relation of subject and object, and the 
grounds of all particularit}', space, and time, are wholly rela- 
tive to the act of perception. The true doctrine is, that the 
object is absolutely, and not merely formall}-, as with Kant, 
conditioned by the subject. (6) He assumes that this object- 
in-itself is related to phenomena, as cause to effect ; for- 
getting that, according to his own theor}^, causalit}^ also is a 
wholly subjective (ideal) category and can therefore have no 
valid transcendent application. The true thing-in-itself, on 
the other hand, according to Schopenhauer, is not an object 
per se but the Will, — not conscious, personal will, however, 
but will as a blind, unconscious force. Will is substance, 
the absolute ; it alone is, and all things else are its manifes- 
tations. Since particularity exists only in the representation, 



430 APPENDIX. 

in phenomena, into this will, this eternal substance of things, 
no differences and distinctions can enter ; it is " the one and 
all." If, therefore, on its idealistic side Schopenhauer's sj's- 
tem is Kantian, it is on its realistic side a pantheism which 
must be classed with the systems of Giordano Bruno and 
Spinoza. In the interpretation of Kant's idealism, also, 
Schopenhauer departs widely from the peculiar principles of 
the Critique. He not only destroys Kant's elaborate deduc- 
tion of the categories, reducing them all to that of causality, 
at the same time rejecting the ideas of reason^ together with 
all the complicated arguments which Kant had elaborated for 
their exposition and defence as regulative principles of knowl- 
edge ; but he even reduces causality itself to an a lorioyi form 
of intuition coordinate with space and time. All sponta- 
neity of thought in the Kantian sense is, therefore, with him 
abandoned : knowledge is limited, not simply to experience, 
— as with Kant, — but to that which is immediately intuited : 
sensation is asserted to be the source of all conceptions. His 
philosophy is thus, from this point of view, a complete em- 
piricism. Schopenhauer thus wanders as far from the true 
Kantian position as did Fichte, though in the opposite direc- 
tion. His theories of aesthetics and ethics are based upon 
his doctrine of the will, and, in their main features, are bor- 
rowed, as he sa3'S, the former from Plato and the latter from 
the speculations of the Buddhists. 

I. The World as Representation. — The fundamental 
principle of Schopenhauer's theoretical philosophy is ex- 
pressed in the propositions "The world is my representa- 
tion," — "no object without a subject." This principle of 
the phenomenality of all particular existence, has, among 
modern philosophers, been most ably expounded by Berke- 
le}', and to him Schopenhauer acknowledges his indebted- 
ness. But, on the other hand, Schopenhauer claims that all 
previous idealists have erred in identifying phenomenality 
with subjectivity. The representation is not as they suppose 
wholly subjective ; it is neither a subjective symbol of an 



SCHOPENHAIJER. 431 

objectively-existing thing, nor a modification of the subject 
without any corresponding realit3^ On the contrary, the 
relation of subject and object exist only in the representa- 
tion: they are the two correlative parts of which it is the 
unit}^ ; thus, while it is true that there is no object without a 
subject, it is equally true that there is no subject without an 
object. The word phenomenon or representation includes 
both terms as distinctions immanent in itself. In other words, 
the relation of subject to object itself contributes phenome- 
nality. Subject and object both proceed from and are together 
the manifestation of the infinite substance or will, which in 
itself is neither subject nor object. The world is my repre- 
sentation ; but I am only when I represent. 

From this principle of the equal originality of subject and 
object is deduced the falsity of both materialism and spiritual- 
ism (i.e., idealism as commonly understood). Materialism 
assumes that the object produces the subject, while (as with 
Fichte) spiritualism assumes that the subject produces the 
object. But the former is impossible because it makes the 
cognizing subject the product of that which exists only by 
and for its cognition ; it is, moreover, an attempt to explain 
the immediate by the mediate, the more by the less known ; 
and the latter is absurd since the asserted causal connection 
is itself possible only through that which it is adduced to 
explain, i.e., through the relation of subject to object, or the 
representation. The truth is that mind and matter are cor- 
relative ; the}^ are property one and the same thing viewed 
from different sides. The world philosophically considered 
is divisible, not into thought and extension, mind and matter, 
but into the real world or things-in-themselves (the Will), 
and the ideal world or the representation, which includes all 
phenomena both subjective and objective. 

In the synthesis of the representation, however, subject and 
object, though equally original, are not strictly coordinate. 
On the contrar}^, the former holds to the latter the relation of 
the conditioning to the conditioned. The subject conditions 



432 APPENDIX. 

the object both " materially " and " formall}'," — materiall}^ 
ill that its existence is the necessary condition for the exist- 
ence of the object — (the object is onty in the subject) ; and 
formally in that the object is known only through relations 
which are contributed to it by the subject, or, in Kantian 
terms, thi'ough a priori forms of intuition ; that is, both the 
existence of the object as such and its mode of existence are 
determined thi'Ough the subject. The subject is the " ui> 
holder " though not the creator of the world. Schopenhauer's 
S3'stem is thus a transcendental idealism . The formal conditions 
of objectivity contributed b}" the subject are time, space, and 
causalit3\ Time is the form of internal, and space of exter- 
nal phenomena, while causality is the form of all action and 
change. (The ideality of time, according to Schopenhauer, 
appears most clearl}' in the phj'sical law of inertia. For the 
import of this law is that time of itself can produce no alter- 
ation of the states of a given bod}'. But if time can do noth- 
ing, it can have its real being. A similar argument applies 
to space.) The subject as such is independent of time, space, 
and causalit}'. Psj^hologicall}' considered, tune and space 
are the a priori conditions under which alone an object can 
exist for a subject, i.e.^ they are the universal a priori forms 
of all representation. Metaphj'sically considered, the}' are 
the oxAy principia individuationis, the universal conditions of 
particularit}' ; this is distinct from that only when it occupies 
a separate place or a different time. In themselves space and 
time have no point of union ; in time there is no co-existence, 
in space no sequence. The union of the two, as in motion 
and all ph3*sical action, is therefore onl}' possible in a third, 
namel}', causality or matter. Ph3'sical causation is with 
Schopenhauer identical with matter ; not with matter appre- 
hended as the thing-in-itself, for, from this point of view it is 
identical with will, but with matter considered as the abstract 
substratum of action in general : matter in nothing but intuited 
causalit}'. Causation is what the understanding recognizes 
as both the condition and essence of all dynamical action. 



schOpenhauee. 433 

Through the intuition of causality, therefore, first arises the 
conception of a material universe in time and space ; and 
since causality is universal, every thing, whether subjective or 
objective, must be material. 

In its higher relations causaUty appears as the law of suf- 
ficient reason^ which is the highest principle of cognition and 
therefore of all phenomenal existence. According to Scho- 
penhauer this law expresses ' ' the essential form of every 
object, the general kind and mode of all objective existence." 
That is, no phenomenon can exist independently, but for each 
there must be others, which are the ground of its existence, 
and of its existing just as it exists and not in some other way. 
Only when its ground is discovered does a phenomenon become 
intelligible. This principle of sufficient reason, saj^s Schopen- 
hauer, is a priori, since it is universal and necessary ; it can- 
not be derived from experience, since it is the fundamental 
condition of experience. It is the ultimate " categorj^ " from 
which all the others can be derived. In its application to 
phenomena it assumes a four-fold form. (1) The ground or 
sufficient reason is ratio fiendi or ground of becoming (change) . 
No event in the universe occurs or can be conceived as pos- 
sible, except through the pre-supposition of certain antecedent 
events by which its being is wholly conditioned. In other 
words, the law of cause and effect, as commonly understood, 
is the universal and invariable law of phenomena, both sub- 
jective and objective. More particularly the ground of be- 
coming is (a) causality in the more restricted sense of purely 
mechanical causation. From the law of causaUty thus appre- 
hended follow the law of inertia and the indestructibility of 
matter, which, together with the laws of gravitation, cohesion, 
&c., are, according to Schopenhauer, a priori data of knowl- 
edge. (6) In the organic world it is stimulation, e.g., the 
growth of an organism is not, as the law of physical causation 
w^ould require, exactly proportional to the light, heat, food, 
&c., with which it is supplied: these external conditions of 
life are stimuli rather than causes, (c) It is motivation. By 
19 



434 APPENDIX. 

this is meant the incitement of an individual, bj' external in- 
ducements, to the attainment of objects distant in time or 
place. Motives are stimuli which affect the organism tkrough 
the medium of consciousness. (2) The ground is ratio cog- 
noscendi or ground of knowledge. Here the relation of cause 
to effect as it exists in the physical world is reversed, for the 
perceived physical effect becomes in cognition the gi'ound 
(cause) of my knowledge of its antecedent cause. The 
gi'ound as ratio cognoscendi relates wholly to the logical func- 
tion of judgment. When a judgment rests upon a ground or 
sufficient reason, it is said to be true. According to Schopen- 
hauer, there are four modes of truth in propositions : («) 
logical,, when a proposition is a vahd conclusion from given 
premises, the ground of truth being in this case the formal 
accuracy of the deduction ; (b) empirical^ when the ground 
of the proposition is an immediate perception ; (c) transcen- 
dental, when the proposition is grounded upon a priori rela- 
tions of thought ; (f?) metcdogical, when it is gi'ounded upon 
the fundamental axioms of logical thinking, namely, the prin- 
ciples of identit}', conti'adiction, and excluded middle. (3) 
The ground is ratio essendi or ground of being. This relates 
to the necessary relations involved in the a priori intuitions, 
time and space. Thus, for example, the ground of the equal- 
ity of the angles of a triangle is the equalitj' of its sides, and 
vice versa ; the position of every point in space or time is 
determined b}', or has its ground in, the positions of all other 
points, &c. The ground of being, thus, transcends the con- 
ception of change, of phj'sical causation and logical sequence, 
and rests upon the eternal and immutable conditions of objec- 
tive and subjective existence. (4) Lastly, the ground is ratio 
agendi or ground of action. With this we return to motiva- 
tion, A'iewing it, however, not as before, objective^, but sub- 
jectivel}', as conscious volition. The will in itself, as sub- 
stance, is free : but particular volitions are phenomena, and 
are therefore subject to the law of the ground. Volitions are 
determined by the strongest motive just as absolutel}' as arc 



SCHOPENHAUER. 435 

]3li3'sical effects by their causes. In fact it is in volition that 
the relation of causality is most clearly seen ; for volition is 
the actual genesis, under the eye of internal intuition of an 
effect from its cause. " Motivation is causahtj^ viewed from 
within." 

The world of particulars, then, metaphysically considered 
is a representation whose immanent (constitutive) forms are 
the relations of subject and object, time, sj)ace, and causalit3\ 
Viewed from the standpoint of subjective cognition, represen- 
tations can be divided into two classes, namel}', intuitive and 
abstract. The faculties of intuitive cognition are the sense 
and understanding. Sense, as such, is mere receptivit}', and 
of itself is inadequate to perception ; only when the mider- 
standing immediatel}' intuits in sensation a relation of caus- 
ahty does the world as object in space and time arise and 
j)erception become complete. This intuition of causalit}' is 
the sole function of the under standuig. The faculty- of ab- 
stract thought or mediate cognition is reason^ which like 
the understanding has onl}- one function, that, namel}', of 
forming conceptions. Reason is the source of all knowledge 
of the abstract, and, therefore, of all science in so far as this 
latter consists in the subsumption of the special under the 
more general. Schopenhauer's philosophy thus, apart from 
the assumed apriority of the forms of intuition, is a thorough- 
going empuicism. 

II. Tlie World as Will.— If the sole function of the sub- 
ject were that of passive representation as above expounded, 
the only possible result for philosophy would be a phenome- 
nalism which denies to phenomena an}' 7'eal ground, i.e., nihil- 
ism. But the subject is not merety theoretical ; it is also 
2oractical; it acts, it wills, and ever}" such action or volition 
presupposes as its ultimate source an absolute activity which 
as such is altogether independent of the conditions of phe- 
nomenalit}-. Particular volitions, it is true, since thej' are 
possible only thi-ough the conditions of particularity-, space 
and time, exist onl}- in the representation, and are therefore. 



436 APPENDIX. 

as above stated, subject to the law of the ground ; but in 
themselves as acts of ivill^ as manifestations of an inner 
being of the subject (or as Schopenhauer otherwise expresses 
it, as related to man's intelligible character) , they are abso- 
lute and uncaused. In this absoluteness of the will-in-itself, 
says Schopenhauer, the subject, by a transcendent act of 
cognition, — of which no account can be given, since it ne- 
gates the law of the ground and is the ultimate point of 
knowledge, — recognizes its own substantiality; it knows 
itself as not merety an empt}" phenomenon but as also sub- 
stantial, as a thing-in-itself, as loill. "What then exactly 
is to be understood b}' this word will when used as identical 
with substance ? From the principle of individuation which 
asserts that all particularit}^, all distinctions, are possible onl}' 
through space and time, /.e., in the representation, it foUows, 
firsts that the will as substance cannot be personal^ for per- 
sonalit}" implies the distinction of a (particular) subject from 
its objects. (The supposition of the existence of a personal 
God is, according to Schopenhauer, absurd, since it asserts 
the phenomenality of the absolute.) And, secondly^ that the 
will as substance cannot have in itself, consciously or uncon- 
sciously, motives or ends toward which it acts : i.e., it cannot 
be volition. "The Will as thing-in-itself lies outside the 
sphere of the law of the ground in all its forms, and is there- 
fore absolutel}^ groundless, although each of its manifestations 
is throughout subject to this law ; it is, moreover, free from 
all multiplicity ^ although its manifestations in time and space 
are innumerable." "Itiso?ie; ^^et not as an individual or 
a conception is one : but as something which is independent 
of the condition of the possibihty of multiplicity, viz., the 
principium individuationis.'' The only possible conception 
of it therefore, which Schopenhauer's theory of the world 
logicall}' admits, is that of a pure spontaneit}' or blind force 
(though Scliopenhauer objects, for various reasons, to the use 
of the latter term), acting absolutel}', z.e., from nothing to- 
ward nothing, — a conception, however, to which he did not 



SCHOPEXHAUER. 437 

rigidly adhere. Volition is only one — though, indeed, the 
" clearest" — of the manifestations of Will. 

That the vnM thus apprehended, is the substance of the sub- 
ject cannot, says Schopenhauer, be proved : the fact that it is 
such is simpl}' posited absolutely (by a sort of intellectual 
intuition which reminds us of Schelhng) , and is absolutely cer- 
tain without an}' other gi'ound. Admitting this to be true, the 
next step is to show that the will is also the substance of ex- 
ternal objects, — that subject-in-itself and object-in-itself are 
one and the same. This would seem to follow readil}' from the 
principle of individuation, which would render the assumption 
of several substances an absurdity. Xevertheless, Schopen- 
hauer prefers to base this doctrine upon analogical arguments, 
which constitute the weakest part of his s^'stem. Among ex- 
ternal objects, he says, there is one, our bod}', which we know 
both as phenomenon and thing-in-itself. We perceive it exter- 
nally as a part of the world in space and time : but we also 
perceive it internally, and this internal perception identifies it 
with will. "We will to move and the body moves ; in this act 
volition and movement are not cause and effect, but the same 
thing viewed from different sides. But if the bod}' is will all 
things are will. Upon this slender basis of assumption and 
inaccurate logic he gTOunds his scheme of the universe. But 
the real difficulty and inner contradiction of Schopenhauer's 
theory of the will is seen when it is asked : How, if substance 
is pure activity, are we to account for particulars, for things, 
phenomena? What is the ground of the representation, or 
of cognition ? To this question the answer of common sense 
is that the gi'ound of cognition is in the objects cognized ; we 
perceive particulars because antecedent to perception, there 
are particulars to be perceived. But for Schopenhauer this 
answer would seem to be wholly inadmissible. The law of 
indiA-iduation renders a mean between the absolutely indeter- 
minate substance and the manifold of representation impos- 
sible. The ti'ansition from the unity of the will to the 
representative should be for him wholly inex[Dhcable. Xever- 



438 APPENDIX. 

tlielcss he asserts that distinctions do arise in the ■vvill-sub- 
stance directly, i.e., without the mediation of consciousness, 
thus abandoning the principle of individuation, and passing 
from idealism to the most completQ realism. Will is, he sa3's, 
cssentialh' striving, effort, "will-to-live," and thus tends ever 
to give itself expression in defmite forms, to "objectify" 
itself. In this process of manifestation of will there are two 
stages, (1) immediate, (2) mediate objectification. All things 
as particular in space and time are objectified mediately, 
i.e., through the medium of intelligence. But between the 
things of sense and the pure will stand the immediate ob- 
jectifications of will, which are eternal " ideas," the absolute 
and immutable archet^^pes of which all perceived objects are 
imperfect copies. These " ideas" are distinctions immanent in 
the will, existing prior to and independently of all intelligence. 
Through these alone does the multiplicity of perceived objects 
become possible. They are therefore the ground of t]ie mani- 
foldness of the representation. Schopenhauer's answer, thus, 
like that of common sense, refers the differences of phe- 
nomena to real differences in the substance. Again, in his 
eagerness to depreciate the intellect and exalt the will he 
introduces 3'et another contradiction into his theor^'. The 
will, he sa3's, has three stages of objectification, (1) the inor- 
ganic world, where it appears as gravitation, magnetism, &c. ; 

(2) the vegetable kingdom, where it appears as stimulation ; 

(3) the animal kingdom, where it appears as stimulation, and 
also in the higher forms as conscious motivation. Its highest 
objectification is the human brain, for it is through the medium 
of tlie brain that it passes over into representation. By its 
aid ' ' arises at a stroke the world as representation with all its 
forms, object and subject, time, space, multiplicity, and caus- 
alit}'." Intellect is a function of the brain ; even the a priori 
foiTiis of intuition can be identified with its structure. But 
the brain is a particular thing, whose existence is determined 
by innumerable other particular things. If then, as Schopen- 
hauer asserts, the brain is the condition of representation, not 



SCHOPENHAUEE. 439 

only it, but the world as a whole must be allowed to be ante- 
cedent to the representation, z.e., to be equally with the ideas 
immediate objectifications of will. But this contradicts his 
theory of objectification, and if admitted would be the anni- 
hilation of his whole system. 

From the will's independence of space, time, and causality, 
follow at once its indestructibility and freedom. Its mode of 
being is an " eternal now," a nunc stans^ which is called eter- 
nity. Death is an appearance, destruction an illusion ; the 
eternal substance of things remains ever the same. The in- 
dividual perishes ; the species alone, the eternal idea is im- 
perishable. Man, therefore, as an individual, as a conscious 
Ego, vanishes with the organism of which he is a product ; the 
race, humanit}^, alone is immortal. The conscious will is 
reabsorbed into the universal unconscious will ; ' ' death is 
but the winking of an eyelid which obscures the sight." Sub- 
stance and the representation are thus in all points antitheti- 
cal ; in itself the will is identical, indestructible, and free ; in 
the representation it is infinitely diverse, changeable, and sub- 
ject to the invariable law of causality. 

III. u^sthetics. — Schopenhauer's theory of aesthetics is 
based upon his doctrine of ideas. Individual objects are not 
merely individual ; each is representative of a species or 
class, the imperfect expression of a general type or idea in 
the will, which is the ground of its existence. Viewed thus 
in the light of the idea, the individual loses its phenomenal 
character, the accidents of space, time, and causality are 
stripped away, and it stands revealed in its absolute and im- 
mutable essence. This cognition of the idea or universal 
through the medium of the individual is the province of art. 
The true statue or painting is not a copy of nature as it is, 
but of nature as it would be if the ideas of which it is the 
objectification were adequately realized in it. As a mode of 
cognition, aesthetic thought must conform to the nature of its 
object. It cannot, therefore, be discursive. The idea is not 
an abstract conception subject to the law of the ground, but 



440 APPENDIX. 

a distinction immanent in the substance of things or will. 
The cognition of the idea must be intuitive. Art transcends 
all processes of reasoning, all science and reflection, and 
grasps its object immediatel}^ The aesthetic intuition is thus 
independent of space, time, and the law of the ground. But 
how is this possible ? how can the thinker transcend the laws 
of thought? Onl^', answers Schopenhauer, hy losing his in- 
dividuality. ' ' In aesthetic contemplation the particular thing 
becomes the idea of its species, and the individual contem- 
plating it becomes a pure subject of knowledge," i.e., sinks 
back into the absolute. The ideas and the cognizing subject 
participate in the same nature and become identical ; ' ' the 
artist is himself the essence of nature, the will objectified.'* 
The state of mind which accompanies this mystical elevation 
of the subject above himself, is, according to Schopenhauer — 
who in this implicitlj^ follows Kant — that of perfect repose. 
Esthetic enjoj'ment is absolutely in itself and for itself: the 
moment the thought of external interest or advantage enters 
it vanishes. In this theory of aesthetics Schopenhauer en- 
deavors to unite Plato and Kant. Plato's theory of ideas, 
he sa3's, and Kant's things-in- themselves, the absolute reali- 
ties to which no categories of empirical thought are appUcable, 
have essentially the same meaning, though they express it in 
different ways. The clearest expression of what each in- 
tended to state is found in the object of art, the immediate 
objectification of will as idea. 

IV. Ethics. — Schopenhauer's theory of morals is the part 
of his system which is most widely known, and which has 
exerted the greatest influence upon cotemporary life and 
thought. Nevertheless its significance for philosophy is but 
sHght. The principles upon which it rests are brieflj^ as fol- 
lows. The will is essentially will-to-live ; it is continually 
"rushing into life" urged on to self-objectification by the 
very essence of its own being. It is attended by the 
phenomenal world as a body by its shadow. Thus spring 
into being numberless individuals which struggle with one 



SCHOPENHAUEE. 441 

another for existence. Each must realize its idea : but its 
efforts to this end are hindered by the efforts of all the rest. 
These ideas then never can be realized : there is everywhere 
onl}^ imperfection, mutual limitation and destruction, an eter- 
nal process of creation and annihilation. This universal un- 
rest of nature is seen also in consciousness. In the latter the 
will appears as volition (with which are to be classed appetite 
and desire) in which the immanent idea is supplanted by the 
external motive. The sole object of conscious volition is 
gratification of the appetites and desires of the individual ; it 
is a continuous effort to maintain his existence in the face 
of antagonistic natural forces and of opposing individuals. 
The conscious w^ill is the absolutely selfish ; it begins and 
ends with self. The gratification of desire, the attainment 
of the end of volition is happiness. The happiness of the 
individual therefore is the only motive to which the will is 
susceptible. But is happiness attainable? This question 
Schopenhauer answers in the negative. K the will were to 
attain its end, it would be reduced to a state of absolute 
repose, volition, appetite and desire would vanish, and the 
will, as will-to-live, be annihilated. The impossibility of 
gratification must therefore live in the very nature of the will- 
to-live. Upon this principle is based his doctrine of pessi- 
mism. If gratification is j)leasure, the effort to attain it must 
be miser3^ Pain is disquiet, unrest; happiness, repose and 
peace. But unrest in the will is the ground of all existence. 
Pain, unhappiness, miserj^, are therefore the universal lot of 
all individuals, conscious or unconscious. Happiness is an 
unattainable ideal which ever urges man on to action but 
always eludes his gi'asp. The world is, then, absolutely bad, 
the worst possible. There is, however, a way out of this evil 
through freedom from the dominion of external motives, or 
morality. This freedom is to be attained only through what 
Schopenhauer terms the "negation of the wUl-to-live," the 
negation of all appetite, desire, and volition. Since the 
human will is in complete subjection to the causality of mo- 



442 APPENDIX. 

tives., the negatiou of desire is possible only thi'ougli an act, 
analogous to the philosophic and aesthetic intuition, which 
transcends the finite and phenomenal and gives to the subject 
the freedom and repose of the absolute. The first stage in 
the negation of the will-to-live is the feehng of pity and com- 
passion for others. In this sentiment the subject forgets his 
own selfish individuaht}', recognizes the substantial identit}' 
of all men, and responds to the demands of the common 
interest and welfare. Pitj is the gi'ound of justice and of 
all social moralit3\ The second and highest stage of nega- 
tion is the cessation of all volition. In this all thoughts 
of individual or social well-being disappear, and the subject 
experiences the blessedness of perfect repose. The highest 
moralit}' is, then, the most complete asceticism. This theory 
is an attempt to reproduce the Buddhist doctrine of nirvana. 

Schopenhauer's philosophy' is thus a union of the transcen- 
dentalism of Kant and Fichte, the empiricism of Locke, the 
pantheism of Spinoza and Schelling, the idealism of Plato, 
and the pessimism of the Buddhists. The only point in 
which he has a claim to marked originalit}^ is the identifica- 
tion of substance and will. But in the development of this 
principle, as has been shown, he falls into open self-contra- 
diction. In order to pass from the one substance, or Will, 
to the manifold representation, he is obliged to introduce 
into the will immanent motives which are the ground of its 
action. He thus applies to the will the conception of caus- 
alit}', which he at the same time asserts to be inapplicable to 
it. The attempt to reconcile this contradiction is the start- 
ing-point of Yon Hartmann's Philosophy of the Unconscious. 



HAHTMANN. 443 

III. 

HABTMANjST. 

Carl Robert Eduard Von Hartsiaxx was born in Berlin, 
Feb. 23, 1842. His father was an officer of artiller}- in the 
Prussian arm3\ Not finding the ordinary coui'se of academic 
stud}' suited to his tastes, Hartmann, after gi'aduating with 
honor from the gymnasium, chose to follow his father's pro- 
fession in preference to a com'se in the university. In 1865, 
however, a malady, from which he still suffers, obliged him 
to leave the ser^^ce. Deprived thus of all hope of pui'suing 
his chosen work, he turned to the study of philosoph}', in 
which he had previously become interested thi'ough the read- 
ing of Hegel and Schopenhauer, and soon gave evidence of 
remarkable speculative power. In 1867 appeared his Phi- 
losophy of the Unconscious^ which at once gained wide recog- 
nition, and is in many respects the most remarkable of 
recent philosophical works. Since the publication of his 
masterpiece his Mterary activity has been unceasing ; the 
most important of his later works being the Phenomenology 
of the Moral Consciousness (published 1879), a theory of 
ethics grounded upon the speculative principles of the Phi- 
losophy of the Unconscious. 

Hartmann's sj'stem of philosophy is, lilie the speculative 
systems which preceded it, an attempt to determine the 
metaphj'sical principle of being, the ultimate gi'ound and 
essence of the universe. Like those systems also, in its 
solution of this problem, it proceeds upon the monistic h}'- 
pothesis that the essence of things and the essence of the 
Ego are one and the same, and that to know the former we 
need only to determine the latter ; it differs from them chiefly 
in its answer to the question, 'What is the essence of the 
Ego? According to Hartmann, the two most important 



444 APPENDIX. 

answers to this problem given prior to his own are those of 
Schopenhauer and Hegel, and upon these his own theory 
confessedly^ rests. A brief statement of his criticism of these 
philosophers will, thus, indicate with sufficient clearness his 
historical standpoint and central doctrines. 

With Schopenhauer the substance of the Ego and the 
metaphysical principle of being is the will; intelligence or 
reason being asserted b}^ him to be wholly accidental or 
derivative. But the will hy itself^ saj^s Hartmann, cannot 
be shown to be an adequate ground of being either for the 
Ego or for things. For taken in its bare abstractness, as 
pure activity, it is the absolutel}' limitless, aimless, irrational, 
from which reason, intelligence, activity according to design, 
and, in general, the world of concrete forms and agencies, 
can be derived only as a wholly inexplicable accident, or 
through a gi'oss logical blunder. Will, as such, can be only 
the efficient cause of things and not the final cause. On the 
other hand, a similar result is reached if we take, with Hegel, 
intelligence or reason as the essential principle. Thought, 
the " absolutel}^ rational," is undoubtedly a higher principle 
than w^ill, the "absolutely irrational," and satisfies those 
problems for which will, as such, afibrds no solution. But, 
on the other hand, it is equally defective. For if will can 
give to itself no purpose (reason) or ground of activitj^, and 
is, therefore, wholly impotent, reason has no efficiency to 
realize itself; it must remain forever a pure, abstract, immut- 
able idea utterly devoid of actuality. "The real," — Hart- 
mann thus quotes from Schelling, — "is just that which cannot 
be constructed through pure thought." The Hegelian Logic 
which "traverses the Platonic sphere of the in-itself-existing 
idea," is, in general, valid within this sphere, but is utterly 
impotent to pass beyond it to reality ; the idea, the rational 
ground of being, it has, but the tiling^ being itself, is be3'ond 
its grasp. Reason, thus, can be the final, but never the 
eflicient cause of things. It is as impossible for reason to be 
the ground of the irrational (force, will), as for the irrational 



HARTMANN. 445 

to be the ground of reason. From these considerations 
Hartmann, in effect, argues that the true principle can be 
found only in the synthesis of these abstract opposites. In 
a word, his doctrine is, that reason and will are not derived 
one from the other, but are absolutely complementary, — two 
sides of one and the same thing. Apart from one another 
they are empty abstractions, ideal creations of the imagina- 
tion ; together they constitute the substance of all that exists. 
' ' The real is the willed idea, or the idea as content of the 
will." In this union of idea and will, of end and activity, of 
final and efficient cause is given the substance and ground 
of all being. Hartmann's standpoint may, thus, be com- 
pletely characterized, as an attempt to reconcile the antitheti- 
cal doctrines of Schopenhauer and Hegel by showing up their 
one-sided and complementary character. 

The logical result of this theory of substance would seem to 
be the establishment of a self-conscious personality as the 
source of all being, i.e., a pure theism. Hartmann, how- 
ever, unconditionally rejects all such inferences from his 
theory. He follows Schopenhauer and all materialistic physi- 
ology in assuming that consciousness, and therefore person- 
ality, is altogether dependent upon organization, — a function 
of the brain. "Without a brain there could be no conscious 
thought. If, therefore, we call the source of being a person, 
we must conceive him to be altogether blind and unconscious, 
and thus not a deity in the ordinary sense. The correct view 
of the world is not theism but pantheism. Hartmann's con- 
ception of substance or the Absolute is, thus, completely 
stated, the union of unconscious intelhgence and will, — or in 
one word, the Unconscious. He sees everywhere in the uni- 
verse, in all ph3'sical processes, including the physiological 
grounds of consciousness, and in all the fundamental pro- 
cesses of thought, the effects of an unconscious agency work- 
ing according to an immanent purpose or design. All things 
are manifestations of the Unconscious ; it is the soul of the 
universe, the unseen and unseeing artificer who fashions forth 



446 APPENDIX. 

the roj-riad forms of objective and subjective existence ; in 
whom are all things, by whom all things. As possessing in 
itself both efficient force and directing idea, the Unconscious 
acts not onl}' with phj^sical, but also with logical necessity'. 
It is, therefore, absolutel}^ wise as well as omniscient ; it 
never hesitates, it never grows wearj^, it never errs. Space 
and time and all the phenomenal individualit}^ which origi- 
nates in them as jprindpia individuationis^ spring from it as 
forms of its objectification : in itself, however, in its essence, 
it is ever one and the same — an absolute monos. It is 
through this individuation, this realization of the Unconscious 
in particular forms, that consciousness, which is the rending 
apart of idea and will, originates. " The salvation of the 
world depends upon the emancipation of the intellect from 
the will, which is i^ossible only tln-ough consciousness ; this is 
the goal of the whole world-process." In its effort to effect 
this emancipation, the unconscious idea builds up the world in 
space and time as an ascending series of foniis from the inor- 
ganic to the organic, until the animal brain is reached, in which 
b}' some m3^sterious process (which Hartmann very naturall}' 
fails to make clear) the will meets with opposition, its sepa- 
ration from the idea is effected, and consciousness comes upon 
tlie scene. With consiousness comes also the feeling of pain, 
which is the dissatisfaction of the will, and is therefore pos- 
sible only when as in consciousness the will meets with oppo- 
sition. Pleasure, on the other hand, the satisfaction of will 
can never appear in consciousness ; the onl}^ approximation 
to pleasure possible is temporar}^ freedom from pain. From 
this is deduced a thorough-going pessimism. The infinite 
wisdom of the Unconscious, it is true, makes it certain that 
the present world is the best possible, and thus justifies a rela- 
tive optimism ; but though the best possible, it is equall}' cer- 
tain that it is absolutely bad. This position is established 
not only a priori^ but also a posteriori hy a detailed enumera- 
tion of the evils of life. Misery is thus the inevitable at- 
tendant of consciousness. It must, however, for the present 



HARTjVIAK]!3r. 447 

be courageousl}' borne ; in the future salvation will come ; the 
world-process will have been completed ; the Will will be sat- 
isfied, its activity will cease, and all will relapse into notliing- 
ness. 

In the Phenomenology of the Moral Consciousness Hart- 
mann develops his theor}' of ethics. He recognizes in ethics 
an objective and subjective side, both of which are expressed 
by the three heads under which the theoretical portion of his 
work is divided, viz., (1) the springs of moralit}' ; (2) the 
ends of morahty ; (3) the ultimate gi'ound of morality. The 
springs of morahty are, (a) taste, which relates to the prin- 
ciples of harmony and perfection, and the ideal in conduct ; 
(6) feeling, e.g., love, compassion, duty; (c) reason, which 
introduces the idea of the world as a system of ends, and is 
even more essential to moraht}' than feeling itself. The ob- 
jective ends which these subjective principles subserve are the 
general welfare of society and the advancement of universal 
cultm-e. Wh}' these objective ends ai-e obligatory, i.e., wh3' I 
ought to will the welfare and culture of others, can, according 
to Hartmann, be seen only when we penetrate to theu' ulti- 
mate metaphysical gi^ounds, which are the essential identit}' 
of individuals and the absolute, and the ultimate aim of the 
world-process, i.e., that final redemption, or dissolution, which 
can be attained only through the complete development of 
consciousness, or perfect cultui'e. Hartmann concedes free- 
dom only to the unconscious, which as comprehending all 
conditions in itself is free from all external constraint. 

A most noteworthy feature of Hartmann's system is his 
attempt to break away from the traditional a priori dogmatism 
of speculative thinking, and bring his philosophy into har- 
mony with the sphit of the times by adopting the methods of 
emph'ical science. "Speculative results b}' inductive meth- 
ods " is the motto which he has prefixed to the first volume of 
his gi-eat work. He has not, however (as F. A. Lange, 
among others, has pointed out), been altogether successful in 
reahzing this praiseworthy aim. His object is to demonstrate 



448 APPENDIX. 

that all nature must, in the last resort, be interpreted teleo- 
logicalh', i.e., that phj'sical causes are not sufficient to account 
for the given facts, and that the Unconscious must be accepted 
as theii' ultimate ground. But phj^sical science proceeds alto- 
gether upon the opposite assumption, viz., that the series 
of ph3'sical causes is unbroken. Whenever induction fails to 
disclose the physical antecedents of a given event, the conclu- 
sion of the ph3^sicist is, not that no such antecedents exist, 
but that the induction has been imperfect. In order, there- 
fore, to demonstrate " inductively" the existence of the Un- 
conscious, Hartmann has recourse to the mathematical theory 
of probabilit}^, by means of which he transforms the subjec- 
tive uncertainty arising from the imperfection of the ph3'sical 
induction, into an argument for the objective existence of a 
non-ph^'sical cause. By examining in this way, the functions 
of the spinal chord and ganglia, voluntar}^ and reflex move- 
ments, the curative power of natm-e, organic growth, sexual 
love, character, aesthetic judgments, &c., he shows that the 
probability of the existence of the Unconscious amounts to 
certaint3^ The obviously uncritical character of his method, 
however, renders his results almost valueless. 

Hartmann' s s^^stem is the last of the philosophies of the 
Absolute, and is marked by the same combination of pro- 
found insight and arbitrary h^^pothesis which characterizes 
them all. His attempt to reconcile Hegel and Schopenhauer 
is the most brilliant of recent speculative efforts ; but by arbi- 
trarily denying to the unity of being which he thus reaches 
the attribute of consciousness, he has robbed himself of the 
legitimate fruits of his philosophical acumen. His historical 
significance lies mainl}' in his suiTcnder of speculative for 
empirical methods, which marks the admission by speculative 
thought of that supremacy of empiricism which has been 
already noted as a characteristic of cotemporar}^ science. 
This characteristic will be more fully shown in the following 
sections. 



COMTE. 449 

IV. 

COMTE. 

That reduction of all science to natural science, and of all 
scientific methods to the objective methods of physics, which 
has been noted as the characteristic of the second movement 
to be considered, was fii'st clearh' set forth in the '-Positive 
Philosophy" of Auguste Comte. Considered in itself, as a 
S3'stem of special doctiines, Comte's philosophy has little sig- 
nificance ; that in it which is of value is borrowed from pre- 
ceding thinkers, and that which is original is, for the most 
part, whether viewed from the standpoint of empnical science 
or of philosoph}', both inaccm-ate and miimportant. In its 
general standpoint, howcA'cr, it is now recognized as the 
exponent of an important, wide-spread, and aggressive move- 
ment of speculative thought, and as such it merits a place in 
the history of philosoph3^ 

Comte was born at Montpellier, Jan. 19, 1798, and was 
educated at the Polytechnic School in Paris. He earh' fell 
under the influence of the socialist St. Simon, and it is 
largeh" to this, that the strong opposition to the social indi- 
-s-idualism of the eighteenth centmy, which appears in his 
writings, is to be attributed. By profession he was a teacher 
of mathematics, and labored in that capacity for several 3'ears 
at the Pol3i;echnic School. From this position he was, in 
1844, dismissed. The remainder of his life was passed in 
retirement. He died in 1857. His chief works are the Cours 
de Philosophie Positive, which is a general exposition of his 
S3-stem ; and the Systhne de Politique Positive, in which he 
develops in detail his sociological doctrines. 

What the " positivism" of Comte is, can be best seen from 
his celebrated "law of the three stages," which contains the 
central conception of his system. This law, — which accord- 



450 APPENDIX. 

ing to Comte ' ' has a solid foundation of proof, both in the 
facts of our organization and in our historical experience," — 
asserts that in its historical growth, intelligence, whether con- 
sidered on the whole, or in the separate sciences in which it is 
manifested, necessarity passes successively through three 
different theoretical conditions or stages of development, viz., 
the theological or fictitious ; the metaphysical or abstract ; and 
the 2>ositive or scientific. In the theological stage the mind 
seeks for the essential nature of things, for their origin and 
purpose (first and final causes) ; that is, it endeavors to reach 
absolute knowledge. To this end it has recourse to anthro- 
pomorphism, and assumes that all phenomena are produced 
by the immediate action of supernatural beings similar to 
itself, or, as in monotheism, b}' a single supreme being. The- 
ology, or religion in general, is thus, according to Comte, a 
theor}^ of causalit}" which asserts the ultimate cause or causes 
to be personal. In the metapli3-sical stage antlu'opomorphism, 
in the stricter sense, vanishes. The mind substitutes for 
supernatural beings abstract forces, which it takes for veri- 
table entities, but which are, in fact, mere ^legations of the 
knowable ; it assumes these " personified abstractions" to be 
inherent in all things and the sources or causes of all phe- 
nomena. The second stage is thus onl}' a modification of the 
first. But in the highest or positive stage not only does an- 
thropomorphism in all its forms disappear, but causalitj' itself 
is removed, and the idea of laio takes its place. All ques- 
tions in reference to the How? and Whj'? are set aside, and 
the mind devotes itself to the observation and classification 
of phenomena as the}- are actuall}" experienced, in their in- 
variable relations of co-existence, succession, and resem- 
blance. These observed relations of phenomena are the laws 
of plicnomena ; and b}" laio is to be understood absolutel}' 
nothing but this. From the " positive " point of view, there- 
fore, all explanation of facts, or science, is simply the estab- 
lishment of a connection between single phenomena and 
certain general facts, "the number of which continually 



COMTE. 451 

diminishes with the progress of science." There is no faculty 
x)f knowledge but sensuous perception. " Every proposition 
which is not ultimately reducible to the enunciation of a fact, 
pai'ticLilar or general, must be devoid of al] intelligible mean- 
ing." All preceding theories of knowledge, all religion, the- 
ology, and metaphysic, are but ineffectual attempts to reach 
this highest phase of thought ; and the aim of the Positive 
Philosoph}' is to show that the whole course of human thought 
and history has been a progress towards this goal. 

K in this theorj', we disregard the purely Comtean doctrine 
of the historical succession of the tln-ee " stages," positivism, 
viewed as a theory of knowledge, will be seen to be closely 
identical with the scepticism of Hiune. But if it is consid- 
ered as an exposition of the true method of philosophizing 
(and this is its real meaning) , it will show a marked diver- 
gence from Hume's standpoint. In asserting that not onl}' is 
all knowledge obtained b}^ observation and generalization, but 
that ever}" other attitude of the mind, every other mode of 
thought, is essentially negative — a mere negation of the con- 
ditions of thought, Comte, perhaps unconsciously, assiuned a 
realistic position. Instead of approaching the problem of 
science subjectively as did Hume, he approached it objectively ; 
his standpoint is not scepticism but something "^^oszYiue," — 
t.e., the unquestioning acceptance of facts just as they are 
objectively given, the absolute limitation of the mind's ac- 
tivity to the observation of the immediately given content of 
the sense, to phenomena. His method of philosophizing, 
therefore, is not, hke Hume's, a sceptical critique of concep- 
tions, but is merely an attempt to subordinate the phenomena 
of mind to general uniformities of relation, or laws. From 
this point of view the two thinkers are diametiically opposed. 
In this distinction is also given the ground of that universah- 
zation of physical methods mentioned above. The '' posi- 
tive " attitude and method of thought is precisely the distin- 
guishing feature of physical science. By assuming this 
attitude, therefore, the Positive Philosoph}' broke down the 



452 APPENDIX. 

distinction which since the time of Bacon has existed between 
the methods of the mental and phj'sical sciences, and merged 
the former wholl}' in the latter ; in a word it reduced the 
science of mind to a special department of the science of 
biolog3\ In this it has been followed b}' the majorit}' of sub- 
sequent empiricists ; and in this is to be found the direction 
of its chief influence upon the scientific thought of the age. 
This is the distinguishing characteristic of Positivism viewed 
as a general scientific standpoint, independent^ of its special 
Comtean form. 

From this it is obvious in what sense Comte uses the 
word philosoph3^ Philosophy is, with him, simpl}- a general 
theor}' of the special empirical sciences, — the determination 
of their common methods, general connections, and specific 
differences. The Cows de PhilosopJue Positive is merel}' an 
attempt to realize this conception and has little to do with 
the problems of philosophy' rightty so called. 

Of Comte's special doctrines nothing need be said. His 
historical law of the three stages and his classification 
of the sciences, which constituted, in his own opinion, his 
chief claim to originalit}^, are now generall}" rejected as 
hast}' and inaccurate generalizations. According to his own 
view of his work, the crown of his labors, the highest appli- 
cation of his theor}', was his institution of the science of 
sociology and of the "religion of humanity." The consid- 
eration of these, however, and of their eflTect upon cotempo- 
rar}- life and thought, does not fall within the province of the 
present work. 

The general principles which he thus laid down Comte did 
not seek to demonstrate or to cany to a complete S3'stematic 
realization. He contented himself with asserting their valid- 
ity and applying them in special cases. He indeed intimated 
that the complete development of the positive standpoint 
required the discover}^ of some most general law of phe- 
nomena under which all special laws might be subsumed ; 
but he did not attempt this discovery himself. This attempt 



THE ASSOCIATIOXAL PSYCHOLOGY. 453 

was first made b}' Herbert Spencer^ who, though differing 
widel}' from Comte in the details of his system, and den3-ing 
that he is in an}" sense a Comtean, has nevertheless com- 
prehended and developed more full}- than an}' other the fun- 
damental principles of Positivism. Historically Spencer is 
most closel}' connected with the Enghsh associational ps}'- 
chologists, a brief statement of whose doctiines will be given 
before passing to his system. 



V. 

THE ASSOCIATIOXAL PSYCHOLOGY. 

Locke had divided the content of consciousness into sim- 
ple sensations and ideas (copies of sensations) as the maU- 
riel of cognition, the simple, original elements of thought ; 
and complex ideas, which include all higher conceptions, and 
are compounds of simple ideas (Sect. XXVIII.). In the 
formation and combination of these complex ideas, accord- 
ing to this -view, are involved all the processes of thought. 
But if this is admitted, it is clear that the problem of ps}'- 
chology, viz., the empiiical determination of the laws of 
thought, becomes identical with this other, — to determine 
the laws of the formation and combination of complex ideas. 
What, then, it was soon asked, are these laws ? Obvioush', 
not modes of action immanent in the mind itself ; for these 
can be conceived of onl}' as conscious rules of action, or in- 
nate ideas, which Locke's theor}' expressly excludes. The}' 
must, therefore, be mere generalizations from the actual pro- 
cess as determined by observation and analysis: i.e., they 
must be, ultimately, simply uniformities ("laws") in the 
succession or co-existence of sensations and ideas. Viewing 
the problem from this point of view, the Associationalists 



454 APPENDIX. 

asserted that all the laws of thought can be reduced to one 
universal law, viz., that of association, according to which 
two sensations or " ideas of sensation " which resemble each 
other or have been frequentl}^ perceived as co-existent or 
successive, become so intimately connected that they tend 
to appear together in consciousness, the thought of the one 
calling up the other. This fact of the mechanical connection 
of ideas through the relations of contiguity and resemblance, 
was considered a sufficient explanation of all the processes 
of conscious thinking and willingi and of the formation of 
general conceptions. Even those higher conceptions of the 
mind which are apparentl}^ original and simple were reduced 
to complex ideas by the anatytical application of this law. 
Mental phenomena, it was asserted, may, as a result of fre- 
quent repetition under the law of association, form an intimate 
" chemical " union, " may merge into a compound in which 
the separate elements are no more distinguishable, as such, 
than oxygen and h^'drogen in water," or the separate vibra- 
tions in a musical tone. Such an idea, though reall}^ com- 
plex, would appear in .consciousness as simple and indivisi- 
ble ; and of this nature, sa}" the Associationalists, are all the 
conceptions upon whose originality and simplicity philosophy 
gTounds its metaphj^sical speculations. The law of associa- 
tion was thus conceived to be the ground of the unconscious 
formation of conceptions as well as of conscious thinking, 
and was thus raised to a position in the sphere of mind 
analogous to that of the law of gravitation in the physical 
world. 

Upon this theor}' was established a flourishing and aggres- 
sive school of philosophy. (David Hartley, 1705-1757; 
Joseph Priestly, 1733-1804; Erasmus Dariuin, 1731-1802; 
James Mill, 1773-1836 ; John Stuart Mill, 1806-1873 ; Al- 
exander Bain, b. 1818.) The significance of Associational- 
ism for speculative science is largel}' negative. It is actuallj- 
what the Positive Philosophy was theoretically ; it claims to 
be neither materialistic nor idealistic, to have nothing to do 



HEEBEET SPENCEE. 455 

^vitll mind or matter in themselves, or with metaphj^sical 
problems of any sort, but only with '''•facts," i.e., with phe- 
nomena. But on the other hand its unport is positive, in 
that by claiming to demonstrate with the certainty of objec- 
tive science, the empirical origen of the conceptions of sub- 
stantiality, causality, &c., it takes away the only gi'ounds 
upon which philosophy as a metaphysical science can rest. 
It also abolishes practical philosophy as a theory of freedom 
by reducing mind to a complicated mechanism, subject ever}-- 
where to objective laws. Its significance for the histor}^ of 
philosophy is, thus, equivalent to that of a dogmatic system. 



VI. 

HEEBEET SPENCEE. 

AssociATiONALisM ma}', then, be comprehensively defined 
as an attempt to bring the entire sphere of the subjective, — 
the origen and process of thought, — under the dominion of 
mechanical laws. In their attempts to reahze this aim, how- 
ever, all Associationahsts from Hartlej^ to Bain began with 
the individual; i.e., taking the human mind as one object 
among many, they endeavored to discover ^the special me- 
chanical laws which govern it by virtue of its peculiar natm-e, 
just as the chemist unfolds the laws of chemical action, or 
the electiician those of electricity. But such special views 
rest upon the presupposition of the general idea which con- 
stitutes the ground of objective science as a whole, namely, 
that of a universal mechanical connection of all phenomena 
whatsoever ; a conception, that is, of the universe as a whole, 
all of whose parts, whatever may be their specific qualita- 
tive differences, are bound together by definite and invariable 
quantitative relations, which can be formulated in general 



456 APPENDIX. 

laws, and which determine the order and development of the 
world with a strict causal necessit3\ Viewing the problem 
of Associationalism from the standpoint of this idea, it is 
clear that it can be solved, not b}^ merel}' disclosing the 
special laws of consciousness, — though this is essential, — 
but rather by determining the relations of these special laws 
to the universal laws of the mechanical relations of things. 
The thinker who has approached the problem from this side, 
and hj clearl}' formulating and developing its fundamental 
presuppositions has raised Associationalism to the rank of a 
X^hilosoph}', is Herbert Spencer. 

(Spencer was born at Derb}^, Eng., 4^pril 27, 1820. He 
began life as a civil engineer, but early abandoned that pro- 
fession for literar}' pursuits. He has now for many years 
devoted himself exclusively to the development of his system 
of philosophy-.) 

The object of philosophj-, according to Spencer, is to 
deduce the fundamental principles of the special sciences 
(among which psjxhology and ethics rank as subordinate 
departments of biology) from the highest principle or — what 
is with him the same thing — the highest generalization which 
phj'sical science can reach. This supreme generalization 
under which all the phenomena of matter and mind are to 
be subsumed is the law of evolution. The history of the 
universe is to be conceived as a process of development, 
beginning with an original chaotic or ' ' homogeneous " con- 
dition of matter, from which, under fixed mechanical and 
dynamical laws, all the special arrangements of matter which 
now exist have been " evolved." First in order of evolution 
is the formation of simple mechanical aggregates of atoms, 
e.f/., molecules, spheres, systems ; then the evolution of more 
complex aggregates or organisms ; then the evolution of the 
highest product of organization, — thought; and lastly the 
evolution of the complex relations which exist between think- 
ing organisms, or societ}' with its regukitive laws both civil 
and moral. Between these stages there are no fixed lines of 

t 



HERBERT SPENCER. 457 

demarkation ; the passage from one to the other is contin- 
uous^ — the transition from organization to thought being 
mediated by the nerve-s3'stem, in the molecular changes of 
which are to be found the mechanical correlates and equiva- 
lents of all conscious processes. From the psj'chological 
point of view, Spencer admits as the fundamental principle 
of mental development the law of association, of which, how- 
ever, he like Hartley gives a phj^sical explanation. In one 
important point, however, he differs from all previous Asso- 
ciationalists. He admits in opposition to the theory' of Locke 
and J. S. Mill, that the experience of the individual is insuffi- 
cient to account for all his ideas ; necessary relations of 
thought and fundamental convictions of duty require for their 
origin an experience vastly more extended than the brief life 
of the individual. Instead, however, of referring, with Kant, 
these necessary- ideas to a source distinct from experience, he 
endeavors to account for them by the ph3'sical law of heredity. 
The philosophy of evolution is thus, in a word, an attempt to 
account for all the existing phenomena of the universe in 
terms of the redistribution of matter and motion ; and to show 
that the special laws of all classes of phenomena are onl}^ 
different cases of the elementary mechanical laws under which 
this redistribution takes place. Spencer, however, denies that 
his system is materialistic. Of matter and mind per se, he 
sa3's, we know absolutely nothing ; we know onl}^ phenomena 
and their laws. Of the "essence of things" we can sa}^ 
nothing, except that it is a " force " which manifests itself in 
phenomena, but in its essential nature is wholl}' transcend- 
ent. Materialism and idealism are, therefore, equall}" un- 
tenable. But materialism consists not so much in asserting 
the substantial identit}^ of mind and matter, as in asserting 
that the laws which govern the phenomena of both are the 
same ; and since this latter assertion is the basis of Spencer's 
Psychology the terra materialistic may justl}' be applied to his 
whole s^'stem. 

To the realization of this vast scheme Spencer has devoted 
20 



458 APPENDIX. 

liimself with admirable courage and energ3^ Limiting the 
discussion to the origin and development of organisms, he 
projected more than twent}' years ago a series of works which 
should be the complete application of the law of evolution to 
the lihenomena of conscious and unconscious life. Of these 
there have appeared " The Principles of Biology^'' " The 
Principles of Psychology^'' the fii'st part of the ^^ Principles 
of Sociology^'' and a portion of the first part of the " Prin- 
ciples of Morality " (" Data of Ethics ") . In addition to these 
he has published under the title of ^' First Principles'' a gene- 
ral outline of his theory of evolution. 

I. In stating Spencer's theor}' more in detail we have to 
consider, first, his doctrine of the limits of knowledge. By 
him as by the other Associatioualists, the entire content of 
consciousness is assumed to consist of sensations and their 
" ideal" representatives, — /.e., weakened or remembered sen- 
sations, — variously' ordered and combined under the laws of 
association. He is, therefore, obliged to maintain that only 
that can be known which can be sensuousl}- perceived or 
imagined, i.e., adequately represented in a mental pictm'e 
or image ; that the test of cognizabihty is conceivcibility. 
This test he emplo3's to determine the sphere of the " Un- 
knowable" as opposed to the " Knowable." He divides con- 
ceptions into three classes. If all the details of a given 
object can be comprehended within a single representation, 
the conception of it thus formed is comj^lete. When the 
magnitude or complexity of the object is so great that a 
complete conception of it is practically' impossible, a symbolic 
conception of it may be formed by combining into a single 
representation several of its more prominent features. Such 
a conception, e.g., our conception of the earth, maj^ obviously 
be valid, for it may be representative or S3-mbolic of a com- 
j)k'te conception which in itself is entirely in harmony with 
the conditions of knowledge. If, however, a sj'mbolic con- 
ception is such that no cummative or indirect process of 
thought could enal)le us to realize the complete conception 



HEKBERT SPENCER. 459 

wliicli it sj-mbolizes, it is clearly not in harmony with the 
conditions of thought, and may be called an " illegitimate 
conception" or ^'•pseud-idea.''' Such ideas "arc altogether 
vicious and illusive and in no way distinguishable from pure 
fictions." From this it follows that a valid proof of a given 
proposition is the inconceivability of its negation. 

In classifying the content of consciousness under these 
three orders of conceptions, Spencer finds that to the first two 
belong aU the derived or relative conceptions which constitute 
positive science ; while to the last must be relegated the fun- 
damental ideas of religion, God, Creative Power, First Cause, 
etc., as well as the ultimate abstractions, space, time, matter, 
and force, upon which physical science rests. These " ulti- 
mate religious and scientific ideas," therefore, constitute the 
sphere of the unknowable : they are pseud-ideas, their cor- 
responding objects or complete conceptions being in fact in- 
conceivable, unthinkable. This position Spencer grounds 
upon two arguments : first^ upon the failure of every attempt 
to think the infinite or absolute : and second^ upon the prin- 
ciple of the relativity of thought, which he holds not merely 
in the lower, Protagorean sense that each individual's knowl- 
edge is relative to the circumstances in which he is x^laced, 
but also in the higher sense that thought is in its nature a 
relation, — which indeed follows as an obvious corollary from 
the law of association. The principle of relativity is, in fact, 
the central principle of his system viewed from its subjective 
side. 

The absolute and all that pertains thereto are thus dis- 
missed to the limbo of the unknowable. Nevertheless Spen- 
cer is unwUhng to den}' all significance to the transcendent. 
' ' Besides the definite consciousness of which logic formulates 
the laws, there is," he saA's, "also an indefinite consciousness 
which cannot be formulated." This "indefinite" cognition 
of the absolute is the substratum of all definite cognition. 
The very denial of our power to know icliat the absolute is, 
implies at least that it is. Moreover, this recognition of the 



460 APPENDIX. 

absolute is the basis of the law of relativit}- itself. For with- 
out the absolute the relative would have no meaning, or rather 
would itself become absolute. Hence, Spencer argues, we 
are obliged logicallj' as well as by the facts of consciousness 
to admit the existence of the absolute. But in this argument, 
it is forgotten that if the absolute is the correlate of the rela- 
tive it must be defined and known — at least as a conception 
— in precisely that degree in which the relative is defined and 
known. A still more weighty objection is the manifest ab- 
surdity which it involves, that, namely, of employing the law 
of relativit}' to demonstrate the existence of that which at the 
same time is declared to be incompatible with all relation. 

Upon the ground of this indefinite consciousness of the 
absolute Spencer concedes a relative validity to religion, thus 
diverging widely from Comte. The entire content of religion 
consists in ^'ultimate ideas": hence it can have no other 
validit}- than that which pertains to these ideas. But these, 
as we have seen, are valid only in so far as the}^ spnbolize 
the existence of an otherwise absolutely indefinite object. 
Religion, therefore, is justifiable onh^ where it confines itself 
to the mere inarticulate worship of an " Unknown God" ; it 
oversteps its limits wherever it makes positive assertions in 
reference to His nature and acts. Within these limits, how- 
ever, its exercise is valid and indispensable. 

II. Having thus, negativel}', defined the limits of knowl- 
edge, Spencer passes to the positive side of philosoph}', viz., 
the determination of the laws of the knoivable. Since the 
spheres of the knowable and of objective science are co- 
extensive, the supreme law of the latter must at the same 
time be the highest principle of the former. As has been 
stated, the highest principle is the law of evolution. AVhat 
tlicn is evolution? In order to define it we must first distin- 
guisli it negatively from tlie ordinary- conceptions of x>rogress. 
liy the latter is commonly meant a succession of events so 
ordered as to increase the sum of human happiness, i.e., 
progress is always interpreted teleologlcalbj. Evolution, on 



HEEBERT SPENCEE. 461 

the contrary, consists not in such external results, but in a 
series of "internal" changes, which must be interpreted 
physically and not teleologicall}^ : in other words, evolution 
or true progress is not a movement toward a definite end 
which as final cause regulates and directs it, but is a purel}' 
mechanical development ; it deals with nothing but matter and 
motion. This being understood, the positive definition of 
Evolution follows from the consideration of the changes which 
occur when the parts of a material mass pass from unity to 
variety of distribution. These are : (a) an advance from 
homogeneity to heterogeneity; (h) an advance from indefi- 
niteness to definiteness ; (c) increasing differentiation ; {d) . 
increasing integration. These four changes are simultaneous^ '^♦''''*'*^ 
and complementary. Evolution, thus, is " a change from an cA^-^ 
indefinite^ incoherent heterogeneity to a defiyiite, coherent homo- ,,^/c. 
geneity^ through continuous differentiations and integrations.'' ,, ''';* 
This formula includes all processes of development in nature 
and in mind. It is the highest generalization of science. 

In every such ' ' change in the arrangement of iDarts " (evo- 
lution) there are tlnree factors implied, viz., matter, motion, 
and the force which produces motion ; or more properly four 
factors, since motion is a synthesis of time and space. All 
processes, whether phj^sical or mental, can be resolved into 
these elements. What these factors are in themselves it is 
impossible to say : they are modes of the Unknowable. "We 
have, however, a relative knowledge of them gained from 
experience. But experience is itself a process of evolution. 
Hence, whatever may be true of them as objectively existing, 
it is impossible that from the subjective standpoint of knowl- 
edge these elements should be equally original. There must 
be some simple mode of consciousness from which, under the 
law of evolution, all others are derived. This simple mode 
is the perception of resistance to muscular effort, or force. 
Force is the ultimate element of both the knowable and 
unknowable ; for as relatively known it constitutes the real 
content of knowledge, while in itself it is the correlate of 



462 APPENDIX. 

all experience, and must be held to be identical with the 
transcendent realit}^, the absolute, the unknowable itself. 

Evolution must therefore be everywhere conditioned by the 
special laws which govern force in its empirical manifestation. 
These are the well known phj^sical laws of: (1) the inde- 
structibilit}^ of matter; (2) the continuity of motion; (3) 
the persistence of force ; (4) the correlation and equivalence 
of forces ; (5) the direction of motion ; (6) the rhythm of 
motion. The laws of persistence and correlation are thb 
corner-stone of evolution considered dj'namicall}^ Spencer 
is thus obliged to assume the correlation of physical and 
organic (including psychical) forces. Here, however, he 
admits that equivalence, i.e., an exact quantitatiA^e relation, 
cannot be established. Between organic and psychical changes 
and their antecedent mechanical gi'ounds, only " a qualitative 
relation that is indefinitely quantitative — quantitative only in 
so far as involving something like a due proportion between 
causes and effects " — can be shown to exist. This, however, 
he thinks, does not form an exception to the general law, but 
results merety from the complexit}' of the phenomena in- 
volved. The reality of the correlation must be accepted as 
an established fact ; though liow it takes place " is a mystery 
which it is impossible to fathom." To the dynamical may be 
added certain other mechanical conditions of evolution, viz. : 
(1) the instability of the homogeneous; (2) the multipli- 
cation of effects ; (3) the simultaneity of differentiation and 
integration ; (4) tendency to equilibrium. 

Evolution, however, does not cover all the facts of nature. 
Side by side with this evolution of definite forms, there exists 
a second antagonistic process, dissolution, which slowly un- 
does the work of the first, producing homogeneity from hete- 
rogeneity, indefiniteness from definiteness, disintegration from 
integi'ation. Evolution and dissolution are correlative and 
inseparable. At i)resent tlie former preponderates : but will 
it always do so ? May there not be a limit at which evolution 
will cease, and dissolution, gaining the upper hand, reduce 



HERBERT SPENCER. 463 

the world of definite forms again to chaos? This question 
Spencer does not attempt to answer. He thinks it most 
probable, however, that the ultimate state of the universe will 
be that of perfect equilibrium between these processes, — a 
state of perfect rest. 

In his " sj^stem of synthetic philosophy" Spencer applies 
these ' ' first principles " to the explanation of the phenomena 
of the organic world including those of consciousness. In 
his discussion of these phenomena he advances everywhere, 
in conformity to the law of evolution, from the simple to the 
complex. The highest, i.e., most complex manifestation of 
life is the moral consciousness ; the science of ethics there- 
fore forms the culmination of his system. Ethics rests upon 
sociology; for since it is the science of the laws which direct 
the actions of individuals to the attainment of the highest 
welfare of society as a whole, it must be determined by the 
laws of social progress or evolution, i.e., by the natural con- 
ditions (laws) under which this highest welfare is attainable. 
Sociology, in turn, since society is a relation of conscious 
individuals, depends upon psycholog}^, or the science of the 
constitution and gi'owth of intelligence. And, lastly, since 
intelligence is a product of organization, psychology must 
rest upon the science of the laws of organization or biology. 
These sciences taken together — and in reverse order — rep- 
resent the different aspects of one continuous process through 
which, under the mechanical presuppositions above stated, 
the highest social and spiritual activities of man have been 
evolved from the simplest organic germs. This scheme, even 
in its present partial execution, is too vast to be here de- 
scribed even in outline. 

The importance of the Philosophy of Evolution is not to be 
measured altogether by the certainty of its premises or the 
accuracy of its logic. It is an attempt to render explicit the 
tacitly assumed principles of a new intellectual movement ; it 
represents the ideal towards which empirical science is striv- 
ing, rather than its clearly demonstrated results. Much in 



464 APPENDIX. 

it, therefore, is of necessity hypothetical. The objections to 
it are sufficiently obvious. Not onl}^ is the agnosticism 
with which it begins based upon untenable grounds, but 
its fii'st principle, evolution itself, is as yet onlj' an Iwpothe- 
sis, and unfit to be the ground of an a priori deduction of 
the universe ; while the exact correlation of physical and 
ps3xhical forces which it assumes is unsupported b}- scientific 
proofs. Its special arguments are also open to numerous 
objections ; not infrequently the real points at issue are 
evaded b}- assumptions and false logic. But if we regard the 
idea which underlies it, and which may be valid even though 
Spencer's special docti'ines are overthrown, we must admit 
that it has opened a com'se of speculative thought likeh^, in 
the end, to result in many radical changes in the methods 
and standpoint of philosoph3\ 



VII. 

HICKOK. 



The aim of the Philosophy of Evolution coincides very 
closel}^ with that of the philosophy of Hegel ; each attempts 
to show that the laws of the external and internal worlds are 
essentially identical. The}^ approach this problem, however, 
from opposite sides. Hegel, starting with the spontaneity of 
thought, sought to show that the world is externall}^ what the 
mind is internally. Spencer, beginning at the opposite pole, 
with the causal nexus of mechanism, asserts that the mind is 
internally what the world is externall}'. In the development 
of their respective standpoints, also, each finds the same 
insuperable obstacle, naniel}', the difficulty of making the 
transition from one term to the other. The question there- 
fore arises: is this transition at all possible? and, if not, can 



HICKOK. 465 

a single principle, a tertium quid, be found from which the 
laws of both the subjective and objective worlds can be de- 
rived? The attempt to answer these questions, forms the 
central point of Dr. Hickok's speculations. (Laurens P. 
Hickok was born at Bethel, Conn., Dec. 29, 1798 ; pastor at 
Kent and Litchfield, Conn. ; Professor of Theolog}^ at Western 
Reserve College, O., and at Aubm-n Theological Seminary, 
N.Y. ; President of Union College ; and now (1880) living in 
retirement at Amherst, Mass.) 

The key to the whole discussion is, according to Hickok, 
to be found in an accurate study of psychology in so far as 
this relates to the nature of knowledge. For the human 
mind, in all its attempts at science, can deal with nothing 
but what it finds given in itself either immediateh^, through 
experience (perception, reflection) , or mediately through some 
faculty of knowledge which can transcend experience ; and 
in either case the laws of the given content will be identical 
with the laws of the faculty- through which it is cognized. In 
its effoii: to establish a universal philosophy', therefore, the 
mind must take as its first principle the highest principle of 
cognition, and this can be deteiToined only psj'chologicall}'. 

Transferring, then, the problem into the sphere of ps}^- 
cholog}^ we have to ask : what is involved in the process of 
cognition ? The answer to this question is briefl}' as follows : 
(1) In cognition the mind must be passive. The diverse 
phenomena of the objective world and the various feehngs, 
emotions, etc., which the}' induce in the subject, together 
with their relative jDOsitions in space and successions in time 
(laws of empirical science) , must originate in a source dis- 
tinct from the mind itself. (2) It must also be active. 
That the sensuous content is given is independent of the 
subject ; but that it should be perceived is impossible, unless 
there is in the subject a capacit}" for spontaneously taking, as 
it were, the given content into itself. In other words, the 
consciousness of a sensation (affection of the organism) is 
not that sensation itself — as empmcism must logically as- 



466 APPENDIX. 

sume, but it is the mind's spontaneous assertion that the 
sensation is. This is even more clearly seen in the higher 
process of tliiiiking. Thinking is that process whereby 
individual sensations are referred back to things^ as their 
qualities^ and things are connected together in a continuous 
experience by means of the relations of substantiality, caus- 
ality", etc. In thinking, therefore, the given sensations are 
brought into a dynamical connection in which each is made 
to depend upon the others ; and it is absurd to suppose that 
this reciprocal reference is involved in the mere sensation 
itself. On the conti-ar}' these relations must be contributed 
by the activity of thought. 

These facts, says Dr. Hickok, enable us to answer the first 
of the questions propounded above. If the mind, as Spencer 
assumes, were, in cognition, purel}^ passive ; if cognition were 
merely the (inexplicable) consciousness of effects produced 
in the mind b}' an external force, there could be no higher 
principle of science than that of mechanical connection, and 
the Philosoph}" of Evolution would be thoroughl}- logical and 
convincing. And, similarl}^, if in cognition the mind were 
wholl}^ active, if it generated from itself its entire content, or 
even merely absorbed into itself and transmuted into its own 
essence an externallj^ given material^ the supreme principle 
would be that of the spontaneous evolution of thought, and 
Hegel's system would be the onlj^ valid philosophy. But the 
facts of psychology show that not only is the mind both active 
and passive ; but also that these two terms, passivit}^ and 
activity, the mechanical and the logical, the external and the 
internal, are complementary factors in the union of which 
alone knowledge is to be found. If we begin with the exter- 
nal, noliiing but externalit}^ can be logical^ deduced from it ; 
from the juxtaposition of impenetrable atoms nothing subjec- 
tive, no penetrability, intussusception, reference-to-itself can 
be derived ; and if the internal is taken as the starting-point, 
no passage can be found from ideality, from a flux of ideas 
'^rhich are developed from and reabsorbed into one another, 



HICKOK. 467 

to the stabilit}' and numerical identity of the units of the 
external worid. The inadequacy of these two systems is 
therefore (at least primarily) the ine\^table result of their one- 
sidedness. There can be no transition from the internal to 
the external, if we begin with either term as the fii'st prin- 
ciple, and, therefore, none at all unless it be through some- 
thing higher than either. 

The second question, however, can be answered in the 
affirmative. A fiurther anal3^sis of knowledge shows, that 
above both sense and mere spontaneous thinking in relations 
(judgments) and general conceptions, there is a faculty of 
cognition, the Eeason, which is competent to knowledge 
absolutely a jpTiori^ — which, though needing the occasion of 
experience, determines itself absolutely from itself, and thus 
rises above all the relations of experience whether subjective or 
objective, and beholds the transcendent gTounds upon which the 
external and internal worlds, the mind's passivity and activity, 
both rest. Sense is determined wholly from without ; sponta- 
neous thought must act always under conditions imposed upon 
it b}' the sense ; but Reason is an absolute firsts — it deter- 
mines and conditions itself, because it has its own content in 
itself ; it knows itself and therefore has need of nothing other 
to complete its knowledge. Eeason is an absolute One ; it 
knows not through relations (like the understanding) and 
therefore finitely, but intuitivel}^ and therefore absolutely. In 
a word Eeason is personalit}', — the self-conscious Ego, which 
is at the same time self-active wiU. Considered as a faculty 
of knowledge, Eeason is that activity of the mind whereby 
it determines the a priori conditions of all experience, the 
absolute pre-requisites without which experience could never 
arise, and which determine the nature of the sensuous content 
— the mechanical relations which dominate it — as well as 
the validit}' and ground of the judgments of the understand- 
ing. Or, as Dr. Hickok expresses it, its province is to fm-nish 
the sufficient reason for experience. By using this facult}', he 
says, as the organon of philosophy, it is possible to mediate 



468 APPENDIX. 

the two terms which Spencer and Hegel find absokitely an- 
tagonistic ; for instead of tiying to explain experience from 
itself, — instead of making one factor in experience the logi- 
cal prius of its correlate, — as do these philosophers, reason 
posits that which was before all experience and rendered it 
possible. 

The way in which he effects this mediation is briefly as 
follows : As the highest ground of being Reason posits a 
person, God, the Absolute Reason. Through the absolutely 
free activity or self-limitation of God, — who b}" virtue of the 
fact that he is absolute reason is at the same time absolute 
and thus creative will, — there have been created certain me- 
chanical " forces " which constitute the external world as it 
exists prior to consciousness, — the " thing-in-itself." These 
forces occupy space (which, together with time. Dr. Hickok 
conceives to be the reason's capacity for self-limitation a 
2)rion, and which, therefore, come into existence as definite 
2)lctce and period only through this self-limiting or creative 
act) and are punctual unities or atoms, formed from the in- 
teraction of opposing ' ' antagonistic " and ' ' diremptive " non- 
spatial " energies " (or acts of the divine will) . These atoms 
form the substantial basis of the objective world, forming by 
their mechanical combinations all bodies both inorganic and 
organic, and determining by their actions and reactions the 
causal succession of events. Upon these mechanical forces 
has also been creatively superinduced a special vital force 
from the action of which organisms arise, and with them, 
for the first time, subjectivity, internality, sense, and under- 
standing. At this point, therefore, the desired mediation 
must be shown, and this is done b}^ positing, as a necessary 
dictum of Reason, that the internal must have been creatively 
adapted to tlie constitution of the external world. Thus, for 
example, the mind spontaneously judges that every quality 
must belong to a thing, that every event must have a cause, 
&c., and the material world, in fact, supports the validity of 
these judgments because it was created upon these principles. 



HICKOK. 469 

The mere understanding, however, does not comprehend the 
reason for its action but simply judges unreflectingly. It is 
only when (as in man) reason has been added to understand- 
ing, and the subject has thus been raised to the theoretical 
standpoint of the Creator, that he comprehends the ground 
of the validity of these spontaneous judgments. Reason is 
neither subjective nor objective, internal nor external, but 
the higher unit}', the transcendent ground of both. The de- 
tails of this s^'stem cannot be here given. 

In the ethical sphere Dr. Hickok makes a most important 
application of his principle of the reason. Freedom and 
therefore morality he asserts to be impossible unless the mind 
can give to itself an ultimate rule of action, superior to and 
distinct from the motives which originate in the phj^sical and 
mental constitution. In its relation to the appetites, desires, 
inclinations, and affections the will is whoU}- passive ; when 
two such motives conflict it alwa^'s follows the line of least 
resistance. But reason furnishes it with a transcendent mo- 
ti\e, viz., the absolute demand of reason that it be every- 
where realized, — and thus gives it a true alternative, the 
possibility of a free choice. Morality consists in following 
the commands of reason instead of the constitutional impulses 
and deskes. In this ethical demand of reason are found also 
the ground of the Divine creative energy, and of the stabilit}^ 
of the universe. 

Dr. Hickok's historical significance lies mainly in the fact 
that his sj'stem is the first thoroughly scientific attempt to 
make the starting-point of religion — the existence of a per- 
sonal God — the first principle of philosophy. He is in earnest 
with theism ; and endeavors to make its doctrines, not merely 
valid objects of faith, but also valid principles of science. 



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and Illustrations. 8vo. Cloth. Price, $4.00. 

" The book is a stirring one, of course ; the story of Farragut's life is a tale 
of adventure of the most ravishing sort, so that, aside from the value of this 
work as an authentic biography of the greatest of American naval commanders, 
the book is one of surpassing interest, considered merely as a narrative of diffi- 
cult and dangerous enterprises and heroic achievements.''— iVezo York Evening 
Post. 

"Two of the most brilliant and important naval exploits of the war were 
achieved by Farragut, and no name in the service rivaled his either in the esti- 
mation of his countrymen or in the opinion of foreign observers."— /Sai2^ro?ay 
Review. 

XII. 

Erasmus Darwin, 

By Ernst Erause. Translated from the German by W. S. Dallas. 
With a Preliminary Notice by Charles Darwin. With Portrait and 
Woodcuts. One vol., 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

XIII. 
NEW ILLUSTRATED COOPER. 

TJxe JVovels of J. Fenimore Cooper, 

With 64 Engravings on Steel, from Drawings by F. 0. C. Darley. 
Complete in 16 volumes. Price for the complete set, $20.00. 

**♦ This edition of the Novels of Cooper is the cheapest ever offered to the 
public. It contains the entire series of novels, two being bound in each volume ; 
and the series of steel plates, from drawinc;s by F. O. C. Darley, originally en- 
craved for the finer editions, at a great cost, which are conceded to be the best 
work on steel ever produced in America. 



D. Appleton & Co.'s Eecent Pttblications. — {Continued.) 



Eodman the Keeper: 

Southern Sketches. By Constance Fenijiore Woolson. One vol., 
12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

" The reader of these sketches can not fail to discover for himself their in- 
tensely poetic quality— can not fail to recognize the poet's hand in every touch. 
Tropical vegetation is not richer or more spontaneous than the author's fancy is. 
She has spoken face to face with the spirit of the South, and has learned its sad 
secret. She knows its nameless joy, and its undefinable melancholy. She has 
felt the opulence of the sunlight there, she has breathed the drowsy breath of the 
stiflingly fragrant flowers. The characters sketched are strongly dramatic con- 
ceptions, and the portraiture is very fine and distinct. Each of the sketches has 
that breath of life in it which belongs alone to what is called human interest. 
The pathos of the stories is wonderful, but it is wholesome, natural pathos, not 
the pathos manufactured by the literary emotion-monger. Miss Woolson's art 
is superb, and she is lovingly faithful to iV—New Ywk Evening Post. 



The Return of the Princess. 

From the French of Jacques Yincent. "New Handy- Yolume Se- 
ries." Paper, 25 cents. 

XVI. 

Selastian Strome, 

A Novel. By Julian Hawthorne. 8vo. Paper cover. Price, 75 
cents. 

" May be pronounced the most powerful novel Mr. Hawthorne has ever writ- 
ten."— ionc^ore AthencEum. 

" There is a force and power of genius in the book which it is impossible to 
ignore."— ik>/ic?on Spectator. 

XVII. 

The Seamy Side, 

A Novel. By Walter Besant and James Rice. 8vo. Paper cover. 

Price, 50 cents. 
" ' The Seamy Side' is the title of a new novel, by Walter Besant and James 
Rice, the authors of ' The Golden Butterfly,' ' By Celia's Arbor,' and half a dozen 
other stories. There are several strong characters in it. 'Anthony Hamblin,' 
a great self-sacrificing London merchant, his relative 'Alison,' his brother ' Ste- 
phen,' and a ' Miss Nethersole,' are boldly outlined, and touched in places with 
great spirit and life. Like ' The Golden Butterfly.' the best feature of the book 
is the vein of enjoyable humor which runs through iV— Hartford Daily Times. 

XVIII. 

Maneh, 

A Novel. By Mary E. Bryan, Editor cf the " Sunny South." One 
vol., 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50. 

" We have in ' Manch' a lurid, melodramatic story, which has an artistic right 
and reason to be lurid and melodramatic. Its ' sensationalism,' although some* 



D. Appleton & Co/s Kecent Publications.— (Cbn^znwecf.) 

what exaggerated, is proper to it, aiding instead of hindering its artistic purpose, 
precisely as scenes of fighting, which woald be out of place in a story of peaceftU 
life, aid the artistic purpose of a military novel. Moreover, this strongly sensa^ 
tional story is told with great vigor and skill; its dramatic incidents are present- 
ed dramatically ; the characters of its personages are cleverly discriminated; in 
a word, the workmanship of the piece is in the main so good as to jnstity us in 
saying that the author has positive gifts as a novelisV—New York Evening Post. 
'• I regard it as one of the most interesting and thrilling stories I ever read." 
—Alexander H. Stephens. 

XIX. 

Di Cary. 

A Novel of Virginia Life since the War. By M. Jacqueline Thorn- 
ton. 8vo. Paper cover. Price, 75 cents. 

" It is one of the best Southern novels that has yet come under our observa- 
tion." — Philadelphia Press. 



A Gentle Belle. 

A Novel. By Christian Reid, author of '* "Valerie Aylmer," " Mor- 
ton House," etc. 8vo. Paper cover. Price, '75 cents. 

" 'A Gentle Belle' has a strong dramatic interest, and freshness and origi- 
nality of plot. Like its author's previous essays in fiction, it is well written, and 
is attractive in style and character. The interest never flags, and the moral is 
sweet and wholesome. Taken for all in all, the work is the most artistic in de- 
sign and execution that its writer has produced."— 5o5ton Gazette. 



The Life and Words of Christ, 

By Cunningham Geikie, D. D. A new and cheap edition, printed 
from the same stereotype plates as the fine illustrated edition. 
Complete in one vol., 8vo, 1,258 pages. Cloth. Price, $1.50. 
This is the only cheap edition of Geikie's Life of Christ that contains the 
copious notes of the author, the marginal references, and an index. In its pres- 
ent form it is a marvel of cheapness. 

"A work of the highest rank, breathing the spirit of true faith in Christ."— 
Dr. Dehtzsch., the Commentator. 

"A most valuable addition to sacred literature."—^. N. Liitle?ohn, D.D., 
Bishop of Long Island. 

'■'• I have never seen any life of our Lord which approached so near my ideal of 
sach a vf or)^:'— Austin Phelps, D. />., author of " The StiU Hour;' etc. 

" A great and noble work, rich in information, eloquent and scholarly in style, 
earnestly devout in feeling."— io/idJcw Literary World. 



The Longer Epistles of Paul. 

Viz.: Romans, I Corinthians, II Corinthians. By the Rev. Henry 
CowLES, D.D. One vol., 12mo. Cloth. Price, |2.00. 



D. Applbton & CJo.'s Eecent TuBucATiojifs.— (Continued.) 



Fifteen Sermons, 



By William Rollinson Whittixgham, Fourth Bishop of Maryland. 
One vol., 12mo. Cloth. Price, SI. 50. 

"The late Bif5hop of ^Maryland destroyed many of his sermoDS before his 
death. It was very difficult to make a selection from those remaining, hut, at 
the urgent, repeated request of his friends, twelve have heen chosen, and three 
already published, but now out of print, added by special desire, to form a single 
volume. ... It was thought best to include as many on general topics as pos- 
sible, and to put in none strictly ^octrma.V '—Exti-actfiom Preface. 

XXIT. 

JYotes on the Parables of Our Lord, 

By Richard Chenetix Trench, D. D. A new cheaper edition 
12mo. Cloth. Price, 81.25. 



A Search for Winter Sunheams 

In the Riviera, Corsica, Algiers, and Spain. By Samuel S. Cox. 
With Illustrations. A new cheaper edition. 12mo. Cloth. Price, 
$1.75. 



Tlie Elementary Principles of Scientific 
Agriculture. 

By N. T. LuPTOX, LL. D., Professor of Chemistry in Yanderbilt Uni- 
versity, Nashville, Tenn. 12mo. Cloth. Price, 45 cents. 



Mind in the Lower Animals in Health 
and Disease. 

Bv W. LArDER LiNT)SAT, M. D., F. R. S. E., etc. In two vols., 8vo. 

Cloth. Price, $4.00. 
" So far as we are aware, there has been no treatise npon the subject of ani- 
mal intelligence so broad in its foundations, so well considered, or so scientific 
in its methods of inquiry, as that which has been prepared by Dr. W. Lauder 
Lindsay in two large volumes, the first being devoted to a study of animal mind 
in health, and the second to animal mind in disease. We may safely say that his 
work is. in some respects, the most important essay of the kind that has" yet been 
undertaken. His observations have been supplemented by a thorough mastery 
of the history and literature of the subject, and hence his conclusions rest upon 
the broadest possible foundation of safe induction. There is a good analytical 
index to the book, as there ought to be to every work of the Mxih.."'— New' York 
Evening Post. 



D. Appleton & Co.'s Eecekt PriBLicATioNS. — {Continued.') 



The Chemistry of Common Life, 

By the late Professor James F. W. Johnston. A new edition, re- 
vised and enlarged, and brought down to the Present Time, by 
Arthur Herbert Church, M. A., Oxon., author of "Food: its 
Sources, Constituents, and Uses." Illustrated with Maps and nu- 
merous Engravings on Wood. In one vol., 12mo, 592 pages. Cloth. 
Price, $2.00. 



XXIX. 

The Pathology of Mind: 

Being the Third Edition of the Second Part of " The Physiology and 
Pathology of Mind," recast, enlarged, and rewritten. By Henry 
Maudslet, M. D., author of " Body and Mind," " Physiology of the 
Mind," etc. One vol., 12mo. Cloth. 580 pages. Price, $2.00. 
The new material includes chapters on "Dreaming," " Somnambulism and its 
Allied Slates," and large additions in the chapters on the " Causation and Pre- 
vention of Insanity." 



The Crayfish, 

An Introduction to the Study of Zoology. By Professor T. H. Hux- 
ley, F. R. S. With 82 Illustrations. Forming Volume 28 of " The 
International Scientific Series." 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.'75. 
The object of Professor Huxley's new book is to afford an opportunity to 
students to commence the study of zoology by means of a careful verification of 
nearly all that is known concerning a single animal, the common crayfish. The 
book is termed an "Introduction to ZoSIogy." "For whoever will follow its 
pages, crayfish in hand, and will try to verify for himself the statements which it 
contains, will find himself brought face to face with all the great zoological ques- 
tions which excite so lively an interest at the present day." 

"The reader of this valuable monograph will lay it down with a feeling of 
wonder at the amount and variety of matter which has been got out of so Beeoi- 
ingiy slight and unpretending a s,Vi\)iQcV— Saturday Review. 



Ceremonial Institutions, 

Being Part IV of " The Principles of Sociology." (The first portion 
of Volume II.) By Herbert Spencer. 12rao. Cloth. Price, $1.25. 
"In this installment of 'The Principles of Sociology' Mr. Herbert Spencer 
gives us a monograph complete in itself, of moderate length, and on a subject 
which afi\)rd9 considerable literary opportunities. The opportunities have been 
well used, and it needs no historical enthusiasm for primitive humanity to find 
the book as entertaining as it is im^tructive. . . . The leading idea which Mr. 
Spencer develops and illustrates all through the book is that, in the early history 
of society and institutions, form has gone before substance."— /Saiwrciay Review. 



D. Appletok & Co.'s Eecent Publications. — {Continued.) 

XXXII, 

Boscoe's Chemistry. 

A Treatise on Chemistry. By H. E. Roscoe, F. R. S., and C. Schor- 
LEMMER, F. R. S., Professors of Chemistry in Owens College, Man- 
chester, England. With numerous Illustrations. Volume II, Part 
II.— Metals. 8vo. Cloth, $3.00. 

" We commend this volume to our readers' attention, as worthily completing 
the first and inorganic section of a chemical treatise which, within the limits, as 
to size and scope, which have been imposed upon it, has no equal in judicious 
selection of material, in accuracy of detail, in soundness of view, and in orderly 
sequence of statement."— ioncfon Academy. 

XXXIII. 

A Treatise on Oral Deformities 

As a Branch of Mechanical Surgery. By Norman W. Kingslet, 
M. D. S., D. D. S. With over 350 Illustrations. 8vo. Cloth, $5.00 ; 
sheep, $6.00. 



Chemioal Exereises in Qualitative Anal- 
ysis, 

For ordinary Schools. By George W. Rains, M. D., Professor of 
Chemistry and Pharmacy in the Medical Department of the Uni- 
versity of Georgia, etc. Cloth, flexible, 50 cents. 



Great Lights in Seulptare and Fainting. 

A Manual for Young Students. By S. D. Doremus. One vol., 12mo. 
Cloth, $1.00. 

XXXVI. 

The Financial History of the United 
States, 

From 1774 to 1789, embracing the Period of the American Revo- 
lution. By Albert S. Bolles, Lecturer on Political Economy in the 
Boston University. 8vo. Cloth, $2.50. 

" This work traces the causes and consequences of the financial legislation 
of the United States, during one of the most important periods of our history. 

" It fills a place and meets a want which, so far as my observation extends, is 
not supplied by any one publication."— David A. Wells. 

Any of the books in this list sent by mail, post-paid, to any address 
in the United States or Canada, upon receipt of the price. 

D. AFFLETON & CO., FuUishers, 

1, 3, «fe 5 Bond Street, New York. 



Herbert Spencer's Late Works 

ON THE 

SciE]^CE OF Society. 



The Study of Sociology, i vol., i2mo. cioth. Pnce, $1.50. 

II. 
The Principles of Sociology, voi. i. i2mo. cioth. 

Price, $2.00. 

III. 

Ceremonial Institutions. (First partofvoi. 11. of Principles 

of Sociology.") 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.26. 

IV. 

Descriptive Sociology ; or, groups of sociological 

FACTS. Six Parts, in royal folio. Price, $4.00 each. 



" Of all our thinkers he is the one who, as it appears to me, has formed for 
himself the largest new scheme of a systematic philosophy, and, In relation to 
some of the greatest questions of philosophy in their most recent forms, as set or 
reset by the last speculations and revelations of science, has already shot his 
thoughts the farthest."— Prq/". David Masson, in '■^ Becent British Philosophy J'^ 

*'His bold generalizations are always instructive, and some of them may in 
the end be established as the profoundest laws of the knowable universe."— i>r. 
James McCosh, in the " Intuitions of Mind.'''' 

" One who, whether for the extent of his positive knowledge, or for the pro- 
fundity of his speculative insight, has already achieved a name second to none iu 
the whole range of English T^ihiXoso'^'hY.''''— Westminster Beview. 

" The work (' Descriptive Sociology ') is a gigantic one ; its value, when com- 
plete, will be immeasurable; and its actual influence on the study of sociology, 
and help to that study, greater perhaps than any book yet published. It is a 
cyclopaedia of Social Science, but a cyclopaedia edited by the greatest of sociolo- 
gists."— G. W. Smalley, 



For sale by all booksellers ; or sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price. 
D. APPLE TON 6^ CO., Publishers, New York, 



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